


aeon

by hystericalcherries



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Bisexual Lance (Voltron), Boys Being Boys, Dimension Travel, Falling In Love, Fix-It, Flashbacks, Flashforwards, Gay Keith (Voltron), M/M, Mind Control, Mutual Pining, Post-Season/Series 07, Prophetic Visions, Visions in dreams, because wow... s8 was a dumpster fire, quantum abyss, when things get tough... the tough write fix-it fics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-16
Updated: 2019-08-07
Packaged: 2019-08-07 08:44:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 42,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16405112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hystericalcherries/pseuds/hystericalcherries
Summary: Keith does not leave the quantum abyss untouched.“Home can be anything, you know,” Lance says in lieu of a conversation starter.Slivers of moonlight filter through the blinds above their heads, casting lines of truth across the sheets. Lance tilts his head forward and a band slides over his eyes, catching the ocean in them and drawing Keith into their rolling tides. And as distracted as he is, he doesn't put up a fight when a hand clasps his own, reeling them heartward.“Home is just something you can come back to.” His knuckles brush against the soft fabric of a nightshirt, the v-neckline falling loose to reveal a sharp collarbone, and Keith feels his breath hitching. “Something that keeps you grounded.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Here I go, back on my klance bullshit.

Time, like most things in Keith’s life, has always been a luxury he never could afford.

It passes him by when he sits on the roof of his third foster home, knees skinned and wide-eyed, yearning for a place among the stars. It slows down when he’s seated in a cockpit, knuckles curled over the smooth leather of the controls, ever pliant to his direction. Every blink, every beat, every stride— he survives each second, waiting for the next with bated breath and clenched fists. He abides by its rules, taking his cue and going through the motions, hoping beyond hope that there’s something at the end of this long tunnel.

Time is different in the quantum abyss. Different in that it is a house guest, coming and going as it pleases. It visits Keith, embracing him like a long, lost friend, gifting him its presence and exchanging stories of a past he doesn’t remember and a future he doesn’t know.

It shows him things. Things that go far beyond the cluster of neutron stars that surround him, expanding into the Blue Lion’s shield and his father’s smile, mirrored in the eyes of his newly found mother. It colors the fur of his wolf, bounding along the stretch of a beach he’s never seen, sand shifting under his feet as he walks through a footpath framed by tropical leaves. Some of them are secondhand images, the rocking of his mother’s arms and the curd taste of _vrepit sa_ , and others, the stinging bite of a glowing hand aimed at his heart and the sweet laughter of his team over a distant fire, are scenes he lives and relives, over and over again.

“It’s coming,” his mother says, eyes snapping to him and finding his own already looking back.

The dark stars awake, exhaling life into this corner of the universe, casting them into its shadow of light. It stretches and stretches and stretches, fingers exploring Keith, running a thumb over his lips and down his chest. It closes his eyes with a kiss, promising secrets in return for his time.

Keith gives it.

* * *

Water surges up to grasp his ankle, wet fingers running up and down his skin, leaving goosebumps in their wake. Grains of sand shift underneath him, following the curves of the shore and his body. Something warm and thrumming with life presses against his side, nestled under his chin and tickling his nose. It smells like citrus, vibrant and alive.

“Hey,” says a familiar voice, low-pitched and rolling with the distant sound of waves.

“Hey,” Keith says back automatically.

“I’m glad you stayed.” A hand weighs heavy over his stomach, skimming over his chest and up his neck, aiming to brush through damp hair. A hum vibrates his throat, brazen in its pleasure over the intimate act. “I’m glad you’re here.”

“Me too.”

* * *

He does not leave the quantum abyss untouched.

It lingers, seeping deep into his skin and fitting itself into the tight space between his ribs. Unable to wedge his fingers through the cracks and pull it from his chest, he lets it stay, breathing around the radiation it emanates. With every heartbeat it contaminates his existence, slinking into his bones and voice, bouncing off warped pieces of organic debris whenever he walks or talks.

He has started calling them flashes. Flashes of light. Flashes of time. Flashes of life.

They happen in ambiguous intervals, gripping his mind on a whim and refusing to let go until he submits to its desires. When he walks the waking world it flares up, a rush of wind and the weightlessness of falling, and when he drifts off to sleep it slinks past the curtain of his eyelids, phantom limbs clinging to him and his own voice yelling _shut up and trust me_.

He watches his mother slow to a stop in front of him, eyes glazing over in a far off look. Her hands suddenly go lax and the crate of supplies in her hands slips, and it is only the quick reflexes of their newly acquired Altean companion that saves it from this planet’s abnormal gravitational pull. Her body goes rigid just as her face goes slack, a paradox of existence that reflects in the yellow of her eyes, neon in the absolute darkness of space.

Careful, he makes to touch her elbow. “Mom?”

Like a flick of a switch, Krolia returns. Her eyes snap to him, wild and fierce, brows angled in an expression that he’s seen in the mirror. The stillness around her recedes and recognition shines through.

“Keith.” It’s soft, almost like a prayer. “You’re here.”

He nods, taking her hand. “I’m here.”

They don’t say much about it, but both are aware of the threads that link them together. His father had tied the first knot, linking them by blood, and the Blades, through trials of forbearance, had secured the second. Now the flashes anchor them, a single point, absolute in a world full of variables.

So they stick together, stepping back into a world governed by time, following its orders to march along a linear plane, and letting the vacuum of space seal them into an Altean pod, depressurizing and locking the abyss’ byproducts into their lungs. They watch silently as the pod’s navigation system leads them to a castleship made by a dead king, crumbling under the weight of a friend turned traitor; all it takes is a snap, betrayal in the name of good, and the world is tilting off its axis, spinning faster and faster as Voltron fights its own twisted image. Time passes and passes, skipping a stone over a great lake of stars— skipping _one, two, three_.

And for Keith, it is nothing. He has watched time fly by for two years, hardening his skin and broadening his shoulders; he has lived days as short as an hour and as long as a week, inhaling in the dawn and exhaling the dusk. It is just another moment in the sea of many.

It is nothing, until it’s not.

Without warning the large expanse of space is too loud, too vast, too much. Life on the back of the celestial whale had been muted, a peaceful isolation that he doesn’t appreciate until it’s taken away from him. Reality comes crashing down like a clash of swords, sparks jumping as metal slides against metal, aiming to slice and dissect. Warships surround them, clouding the atmosphere of Earth in a timeline never considered; hysteria crawls along the edges of their voice and wistfulness in their sighs, in time to the ominous beeps of their oxygen levels.

And he takes the mantle of leader once again, wearing the Black Lion’s pelt like a second skin. The others step up beside him with not a blink of vacillation, following him whilst totally unaware to how much he’s changed. The weight of it is heavy and some days he feels out of place, a wolf in sheep’s clothing. He tries his best to stitch himself back into their lives, but his fingers fumble with disuse, hypothetical needle pricking him and staining his work with blood.

And the flashes, they persist, trying to convince him of a life that isn’t his.

For as long as Keith can remember, he’s known of the difference that separates him from the rest of the world. A temper that flares like molten fire and a talent that could have him flying, upwards and onwards, across the night sky. He's been nothing but problematic his whole life— it starts with him climbing out the window of his first foster home and getting caught by the local sheriff stealing canned beans from the general store down the street, and ends with him getting lost in the stars he shot for. He is a boy conceived in the throes of chance, bred for the taint of war, and suspended in the cockpit of space. Wild and detached. Endlessly adrift, searching for a reason to bleed.

But the flashes say different. They tell a story filled with rising suns, holoscreen calls and a family found.

He doesn’t know what to believe, but he knows what he wants.

* * *

A ribbon of moonlight cast over the crest of a nose, highlighting pools of navy, zoetic like a cradle of stars. It comes with a feeling, timid but yearning. A seed, newly planted, breaching the surface and stretching towards the light.

He extends a hand—

 _Home_.

—and grasps nothing.

* * *

Life on Earth after is nothing like life on Earth before.

The world had been cotton-edged when he first woke after the battle, fuzzy in a disorienting way that makes his nerves buzz and eyelashes flutter in the rays of a new day’s sun; shapes sway in a colorful charade that eventually merge together to form the familiar faces of those important to him. Aches cramp up his muscles, a distant throb that a doctor had affirmed would heal with time. Time spent restlessly laying in bed as he listens to what his mother and Kolivan have to report about the state of the universe, watching idly how the medical staff skitters around the two, unable to meet either of the Galrans’ gazes when they talk about newly found Blades and high-profile rebel groups taking back what was stolen from them. It keeps Keith grounded, hand buried in the soft mane of his wolf, anchoring him to the _now_.

A week and he’s deemed fit for discharge, walking out of the hospital ward with his mother at his side and his bayard at his belt, ready to be thrown back into the fight— only to find out that there are none left.

The damage done to Earth is glaringly obvious the moment he steps a foot outside. Scorch marks burn into runways while decimated and overturned vehicles alike litter its path, fritzing wires and broken glass giving a simple stroll a dangerous edge. Buildings sag in their seats, missing chunks out of their sides where lazer blasts had struck true, left unprotected by a rudimentary particle shield and humankind’s own inexperience. The people appear even worse for wear, faces drawn and ashen; military persons walk with purpose around the ruin, uniforms ripped and weapons drawn, towing away rubble and guiding lost-looking refugees.

The planet is grieving and they are only a fraction of its whole, attempting to pick up its pieces.

(“It reminds me of Daibazaal,” Kolivan had said to him one early morning while they wait for the rest of the base to wake. The sunrise paints over his usually harsh features, softening the puckered skin of his scar and the hard ridge of his brow. “From what your Blue Paladin had divulged, Earth had shined like our planet once did, before the comet brought it crumbling to its knees.”

Keith had paused, head tilted. “Were you there— when it happened?”

“No.” A deep breath, pained but strong. “It was many decapheebs ago. However, the story has been passed down through our ancestors. Every Galra know the story of our planet’s end. It is the reason we still fight today.”

A blink and he was a ghost looking over his mother’s shoulder, down at the blade that’s placed in her calloused palm. The moment weighs heavily in his mind, a burden given and a duty shouldered, taken on by oath of blood. A figure looms over, the shadow of a beast tamed by war; they have many titles, many names, but Keith knows only one. _Father_ , a young Krolia whispers, kneeling in the decaying relics of an empire, _what do we fight for?_

To the west, the Black Lion overlooked its pride. “Let us hope Earth does not make the same mistake.”)

It takes two months to finish cleanup, even with the help of the Lions. Sterilized by war, the Galaxy Garrison is a mere extension of the surrounding desert; a man-made mountain turned canyon, draining of hubris. Rebuilding what Sendak destroyed will take time, a currency that inflates in periods of trouble, dragging down the empty pockets of the castaways of strife. It’s a costly endeavor and even with contact of whatever remains of the coalition, it might not be enough.

Leaders and followers alike swarm him with this fact, pulsing in a beat that’s deleterious to his sanity; they want control and they want knowledge, demanding it from where he stands on the dais they put him on. It’s frustrating, how they try to tie him down; he pulls against the rope, a runaway searching for freedom. He had found it in the cockpit of the Red Lion, accelerating until they were one and the same, a bullet shooting out of a pistol, piercing an alien planet’s stratosphere in a blaze of condensed water and Altean alchemy. It had felt right back then, rivers of clouds buffeting armored plates with the intent of inching his ribs apart and grasping for his heart, trying to reclaim what rightfully belonged to the stars. _Faster_ , he would chant, impatient now that the universe is spread out at his feet, _faster, faster, faster_.

Now there are responsibilities that go beyond him, all under the jurisdiction of Voltron’s astronomical shadow, and he is only one of the five gateways to that power.

Someone must say something to the superiors because he is put in charge of a new training regiment for the MFE recruits, a precaution turned requirement. It’s Shiro who first mentions it, sitting at Keith’s bedside with a bouquet of flowers Keith doesn’t bother asking about. His new arm levitates just below where the junction of an elbow should be, glowing faintly under the fluorescent lights of the room, soothing the scarring warlords have carved into him. The request ends with a robotic hand on his shoulder and, “I wouldn’t ask of it if I didn’t think you could do it.”

So Keith agrees. A nod and he’s in charge of Earth’s only space infantry, renewed and steadfast. A last defense to a planet on the edge of collapse.

It’s not until a few days later, when Keith is forced to stand before the very recruits he’ll be managing, that he realizes how out of his depth he truly is. It’s all he can do to keep his face neutral, to hide the anxiety that lurks just beneath the surface of his skin. Lieutenants, sporting bands of valor on their shoulders, stand at parade rest, gaze unwavering forward in a way that barricades any option of retreat. 

“This is Paladin Kogane and he will be heading this operation,” Commander Garrison says starkly, his single eye ripping apart every microexpression.

A few eyes flicker to Keith.

“You have been trained for space exploration, not in militant strategy, and you’ll need guidance beyond what Earth can provide you. Kogane has more than enough experience in the area— his time with both Voltron and the Blade of Marmora will give us an edge that our normal combat routines lack. You few have proven your worth in paving the way for what could become the norm in the Garrison’s combatant regiment, so I expect not to be disappointed.”

A brisk salute that even Keith reciprocates and the commander about faces, leaving.

Once the door slides shut behind him and his entourage, all eyes of the room snap back to Keith and he tries not to bend at the weight of them. Like a brick to the temple, it hits him. Whatever they take away from this experience could either save them or damn them. It’s a lot, being the deciding factor of life or death. What if he forgets something? What if it's not enough? What if—

Someone clears their throat.

Awaiting his order, the recruits are lined up along the perimeter of the room, varying in age, color and body type. A few of the faces he vaguely recognizes, abstract characteristics he remembers passing him by in these very same halls years prior. A scatter of freckles and straight-cut bangs. Dreads and a chiseled face caught in a blank expression. Straight-edged glasses and petite hands. Light brown hair and a pointedly unimpressed frown…

He takes a step forward, shoulders back and head high, thinking of Allura as she pilots the Castle of Lions and Shiro as he walks up a docking ramp. “Training will be four days of the week, with a morning and afternoon portion. We’ll be starting tomorrow at oh-seven-hundred hours. All equipment will be provided, so come ready to work. Dismissed.”

There’s a moment of hesitation, birthed from the terseness of his words, but all it takes is for Keith to raise his eyebrows and they are saluting back and filing out of the room. A few send him looks over their shoulders, whispering to each other, but he ignores them. Ignores them until the last of them are gone, leaving only Keith.

“You know,” a familiar voice starts just as he’s about to leave himself. “When they first said that you had come back, I didn’t really believe them.”

Keith turns.

“But,” James says, standing just outside the perimeter of the mat, duffel bag slung over his shoulder. He looks exactly the same, bangs sweeping over the arch of his left eyebrow and a thin upper lip curling in a smirk. “Here you are. I’m not surprised, not really, but god, it makes me angry. You really had to prove you were better than the rest and get caught up in some galactic war, huh?”

Annoyed by the silent undertone of those words, Keith rudely asks, “Did you need something?”

The boy’s eyebrow ticks, but his face is composed mere seconds later. Without any fanfare, a small holoscreen is slipping out the folds of a bag and thrust into his hands; marked with the Garrison’s logo and having no pass code, it opens to a desposity of files, each with a military photo and a corresponding list of statistics. The detail put into it is superlative, giving a number of categories that range from dexterity to psychological analysis. Every member of the class is noted within the digital archive, with maybe the exception of Keith himself.

“Thought you might need something to base your regiment on. I don’t want this to be a complete waste of time and I’m betting you don’t either. Think of this as a peace offering.” When Keith doesn’t say anything, James’ eyes narrow. “It’s not that hard to understand. You want to defeat the Galra and I want to keep Earth safe— two goals with the same outcome. We don’t have to be friends or anything, but it’ll be in both of our best interest to put our difference aside and work together for once.”

Keith considers it. A mutual cooperation doesn’t sound completely terrible, but still something doesn’t feel right. Something that the other had said…

“What do you mean? Two goals with the same outcome. We both want Earth safe.”

“Keith,” the other says and it’s a shock, how his own name can be said in such a way that it makes him want to flinch. Pity had never been an easy pill to swallow. “We both know that you never cared for anything permanent.”

Rust coats the curved blade twisting in his gut and he stumbles back, unprepared for the pain that follows.

Unaffected, James nods and shoulders his bag. “See you tomorrow.”

The exchange ends just as it quickly as it begins, leaving Keith unhinged. He feels called out— for what, he doesn’t know— but it had him being pushed under the scope, magnified and focused to unimaginable degrees, only to find the results wanting. His body vibrates, buzzing for talk, for action, for _something._

It takes only a thought for his bayard to materialize and form its commonplace sword. It takes another thought to realize that he can’t find solace here; there are no gladiators to battle against, no programmed levels to best, and no invisible mazes to run through. The Galaxy Garrison might be leading humanity into a new age, but it still lacks the basic commodities Keith had taken for granted on the castleship. His grip tightens and then loosen, weapon dematerializing.

He looks down at the holoscreen.

His own face, young and sporting a split lip, glares back at him.

Past the memory, his reflection sits. Two sides of a coin, forged in the fires beneath this planet’s crust but branded by a long-dead star’s radiation. Somewhere along a comet’s tail as it passed through this solar system, a divergence was made. It’s two feet planted on the ground but a gaze to the sky. It’s the alien blood that runs through his human veins. It’s a blade underneath his pillow. It’s the controls of the universe’s strongest weapon in his blistering grip. It’s _what do we fight for?_ and _who better than the very best?_

Earth may be different, but so is Keith.

* * *

When his father passes away, Keith loses the ability to build a home. Instead, he builds bridges. He keeps to the space in-between, never taking that final step for fear of falling. Suspended in a loop, kicking up dust as he follows the skyline in search of an elusive end. Something that he can call his.

Keith makes bridges he can’t cross.

* * *

Like all things, life goes on.

A semblance of normality settles over Earth and its residents, putting together the pieces of what was torn apart. Buildings rise from the ground and people with them. Families, diminished in size and changed through trauma, attempt to flower from their recently upturned roots. Routines are revived as society takes its first breath through the trailing smoke of funeral pyres, looking less to survive and more _to live_.

At Shiro’s urgence, Keith and Krolia do the same and move into his apartment on Garrison grounds.

The space feels empty despite its modern furnishing and newly-stocked kitchen, but the two don’t mind, finding that it’s a better alternative to a dusty, old shack that holds too many painful memories. Not that their new home doesn’t have its own ghosts, for something still lingers of the man that smiles at them from the many photographs littered around the place. And though Shiro doesn’t say anything about it, it’s hard to ignore the wistfully sad look that overtakes him when Kosmo finds a set of keys between the cushions or an extra pair of glasses on the kitchen counter. Nonetheless, he doesn’t relocate to the captain’s quarters on the Atlas, keeping to his humble abode with its somber memories.

It takes not even an hour to transfer what little belongings they have from the Black Lion and try to fill up the space, conjuring a future in what remains of the past. Day by day they live, trying hard not to stumble.

Everyday, he wakes and does what’s needed of him. He’s showers and trains and teaches and salutes, habitual as he fits himself into a mold. There are no complaints, not when he leaves no room for them, mouth downturned in an impressive frown. It’s tedious, but Keith bears it, knowing that it is in this niche which he is most useful.

He doesn’t see the rest of the team as often as he’d like, what with their busy schedules, but there are glimpses; a passing smile as a lieutenant escorts Allura and Coran into a another conference and a quick greeting from the Holt siblings before they’re off, fumbling with a treasure trove of blueprints they carry, tempered by the side-hug Hunk bestows and fist bump Lance gives before the both of them are being called by their families.

Keith tries not to feel hurt by how easily they drift apart.

“Don’t let it get to you,” Shiro tells him over breakfast, somehow knowing exactly what is wrong despite Keith having not said a word on the matter. “There’s just a lot going on. Everyone’s still trying to find their balance.”

Keith just crosses his arms and shrugs noncommittally, pretending he doesn’t realize how petulant he must look. “It’s fine,” he says. “They can do whatever they want.”

“Keith, you’re allowed to care.”

The other’s tone, gentle and supportive, has Keith unwinding the knots in his muscles with a sigh. He looks to his friend and then away, fixing his gaze to the group of students huddled together under a tree in the Garrison’s main quad. One of them says something he can’t hear and the rest erupt into laughter. “Yeah, I know.”

“Things will work themselves out, just you wait. Okay?”

“Okay.”

And like about most things, Shiro is right.

As days pass, so does the madness. Walking through the barracks of the Garrison is still weird, but it gets easier to ignore the whispers that follow his form, snagging onto his borrowed clothes, tracing the outline of his scar and burrowing deep into his pores. The walls don’t press upon him as much, sparing his lungs a great deal of effort when it comes time to speak, and the polite murmurs of _paladin_ from men and women twice his age no longer makes his skin crawl. It becomes commonplace to cut through the base and see the lions, behemoths in their own right, sitting in the shadow of the human-altean hybrid Atlas; all silent observers to the going-ons of the base and the people that call it home.

People congregate, fulfilling the genetic deep need for interaction during mealtimes in the cantine, talk bubbling into something casual and among individuals made close by circumstance, stark against the backdrop of wreckage that still sits outside their windows. Faces become more familiar in that distant sort of way, crossing his path frequently enough to garner a nod in greeting or a vocal acknowledgement; it’s almost similar to time at the Garrison before Voltron, but different in that the attention is based on earnest admiration over his actions rather than grudging revere over his skill.

It’s then that the team comes back together.

Pidge is the first, dropping herself into the seat across from him as he eats breakfast, already halfway through a conversation she expects Keith to participate in. “I just don’t understand how an entire military base could be so stupid. It’s a wonder things ran so smoothly without me before now.” A huff and then, belatedly, “Hi, Keith”

“Hi,” he says past the initial surprise, followed almost immediately by small, pleased smile that he hides behind his hand. “What’s got you in such a mood?”

“Oh, nothing!” The girl stabs at her hashbrowns, cutting with vengeance, and he remembers her doing the same to the food goo back at the castle. “It’s just that everyone in the technical department has their heads shoved so far up their butts that it’s a miracle they can see the tabs on their computers! Can you imagine thinking that a single-sideband modulation is enough to broadcast a signal from one solar system to another? Absolutely crazy.”

He opens his mouth to try an attempt at consoling, but is interrupted by a tray heaped with food nudging against his own and a sturdy body pressing up against his side.

“What’s crazy,” Hunk begins around a full mouth, brandishing his spork like a baton, sending a glop of oatmeal to the floor and to splatter on a passing figure’s shoes, “is how you think a double-modulation is necessary at all. You’re just salty that people are agreeing with me. We didn’t need it for the castle in deep space and we don’t need now. Like, think about it, what would we even do— oh, hey Keith.”

“Hi.”

Ignoring the spluttering Pidge undergoes at his previous words, Hunk turns to fully face the red paladin and it’s just like it was before, easy. As if it hasn’t been weeks since they last had a real conversation and only hours. “Haven’t seen you around. That class of yours keeping you busy?”

Keith shrugs. “I guess. Depends on the day.”

“Yeah, I feel that. Sometimes I’m so busy that I feel overwhelmed, and other times I have so much free time that I don’t even know what to do with myself.” It’s a tell of their time together in space that Hunk doesn’t press him for details on his class, for which Keith is thankful. “They have me and my dad working on the coiling of the Atlas’s main inductors. It’s slow work cause of the size of them, but we’re getting there. Hopefully it’ll stop the Atlas from shutting down secondary functions when in full mecha-mode. Then it’s straight to work on altering the zero gravity chambers.”

Pidge pouts. “Man, I’m so jealous. You get to work on the Atlas while I’m stuck teaching idiots basic coding back at home base.” She cups her chin, elbow nearly in her mashed potatoes, and sighs dreamily. “What I wouldn’t give to see what’s hiding in that ship’s mainframe.”

“Hey, it’s not all it’s cracked up to be— most of what we do is test out the system.” He lets out a gruff noise from the back of his throat, a cross between a scoff and whine. “It’s so annoying because we have get clearance for every one we do, which is _a lot_. Ever since they set up a connection between Atlas and that robobeast, things have been on edge. I mean, I totally get it — no one wants to be responsible for the termination of Earth’s only connection to the universe, but, still, it makes my job just that much harder. Dad’s going crazy over it and the limitations of what we can do. Clearance and all that, you know.”

Keith pats the boy on the bicep. “That sucks, big man. Sorry to hear that.”

“It’s whatever.” But he sends Keith a smile before perking up considerable. A sparkle that Keith recognizes shines in the dark brown of his eyes. “But it does mean that whenever something does slip through the clearance, I’m the first to know.”

Pidge, the youngest and most susceptible to the yellow paladin’s gossiping ways, cocks an eyebrow. “Oh?”

Hunk nods enthusiastically. “There’s talk about that altean we found. Her pod is a few doors down from the engine room. People are always going in and out.”

And Keith, though never one to dip into the rumors that run their course through the base, can’t deny the curiosity that spikes at the mention of the mysterious girl found at the apex of the robobeast’s heart. “Is she awake?”

“Not that I know.”

“Do they know why she was in the robobeast at least? Why it attacked Earth? Who sent it?”

“Not sure, but Romelle did say that she remembers seeing her around the colony. I’m guessing whoever took them is the one behind all this.”

That’s been the hook to a great many theories over the subject, Keith’s included. By this point, it isn’t of a matter of what but a matter of why. The reason behind the attack that nearly cost Earth everything is still a well-kept secret and will probably remain so until the Altean girl wakes from her self-induced hypersleep.

“I can’t believe this,” a voice declares loudly from Keith’s right, startling him and drawing the attention of not only their huddled group but that of the tables surrounding them as well. “We have our first ever gossiping circle as a team and I’m the last to be invited.”

It’s Lance, because of course it is. Standing tall and casual, hands on his hips and lips pursed in the usual fashion, the boy cuts a vibrant figure against the pale backdrop of the facility.

At his side, stands a girl.

“Oh yeah, this is my sister, Rachel. Everyone, Rachel. Rachel, everyone,” he introduces— unnecessarily, it would seem, because anyone would have to be blind not to notice the similarities between the two. The resemblance is uncanny. Both sport long limbs and the same sun-kissed skin, clear of any blemishes or imperfections. When she smiles in greeting, dimples appear in the apple of both cheeks, eyebrows arching in a familiar grin that has even Pidge casting a second glance. “But seriously, are you guys gossiping without me? How rude— you know I live for the drama.”

Hunk, the only person capable, chuckles. “We’re just talking about that new Altean girl.”

In unison, the newcomers shove their way into seats on either side of Pidge, tilting forward with matching expressions of intrigue. Keith quells the urge to lean back in response, sharing a look with the girl unfortunate to be squished between them.

“The one they found in that thing you guys fought?” Rachel asks, voice pitched high with excitement and flowing with the same lilt as her brother’s. “Everyone’s saying that she was in league with that Sendak guy.”

Pidge makes a pained face. “Better not let Allura hear that. She’ll freak.”

“Yeah, she’s already stressed enough as it is,” Lance says quietly, eyes soft in the way it always is when concerning the princess. “We don’t wanna make it worse.”

“Yeah, best just to stick with our assignments. I’ve seen how crazy stressed Romelle is lately. With Allura working with the new admiral, it’s up to her and Coran to try and find where the colony has gone. There weren’t any new leads last time I asked.” Hunk licks the back of his utensil, eyes flickering across the cantine and stopping at various individuals, be they civilian or military. “I hope nothing else goes wrong. We’re kinda sitting ducks as it is.”

“Kolivan is doing his best to reunite what’s left of the coalition. Once that’s reinstated, I’m sure everything else will fall back into place.” Keith, says, trying his hand at reassurance. “Try not to sweat it.”

“Yeah, you’re right.”

After that, the topics digress into something lighter. They exchange stories, recounting first meetings and divulging in embarrassing mess-ups, laughing when they all start to one-up each other and the anecdotes get more and more outrageous. It seems like both Lance and Rachel have an endless cache of embarrassing stories to tell and it doesn’t take long until Keith’s smothering a laugh into the sleeve of his uniform.

Eventually, the morning sun rises high into the noon hours and the obligations of the world start calling them. It’s too soon when Hunk’s pager goes off, signaling the end of his breakfast and their time together. Lance whines and Keith secretly wants to do the same when Pidge joins the engineer when he collects his belongings and gets up, trying to convince them to stay. But it’s all for nought because all it takes is another  _beep_ from the pager and they’re gone, promising to make time for another group meal even as they wave goodbye.

“So,” Rachel starts once it’s just the three of them, pushing her brother until she’s seated directly in front of Keith rather than diagonally. “You’re the famous Keith Kogane I’ve heard so much about.”

Not liking her tone, Keith proceeds with caution. “Yeah...”

“Is it true that you sucker punched Iverson and got expelled?”

“Ray,” Lance hisses.

But the girl is shameless, instead leaning forward, chin propped on her steepled fingers. She eyes him and sends a wicked grin his way, sharp like shrapnel. “I just wanna know if all the rumors are true. Iverson didn’t always have only one good eye and what I hear is that you’re the reason behind it. How about it? Are you up to the hype or is my baby brother a liar?”

“Baby brother,” Lance scoffs, offended. “We’re only—”

“Yeah, I took Iverson’s eye out.”

The sibling squabble stops before it can start, and Keith’s left with two very different expression angled his way; while Lance’s jaw drops in surprise, his sister’s drops in uncontained glee.

“He wouldn’t tell me the truth about Shiro. No one would,” he clarifies, focusing more on Lance and his utterly stupefied face. Honestly, he had thought this had been common knowledge after he left, spread through the student grapevine, and it feels odd talking about it now. It was so long ago and explaining why he did what he did feels like an out of body experience. “You know… back when everyone still thought the Kerberos crew was MIA. I was just really frustrated and well, Iverson was there and… yeah.”

“Oh my god,” Rachel says in the stunned silence that follows. “ _Oh my god_ , you’re exactly like Lance says. Unbelievable.”

Now, Keith has never really cared about what’s been thought of him by his peers. It had never mattered before. But he can’t deny his curiosity as he watched the blue paladin shoot his sister a look of utter betrayal, as if this interaction breached some unspoken contact. He wonders what his teammate had to say about him and if it differs to what would be said of him now.

Another side-eye, slow and sly, is thrown his way, accompanied by the rise of a signature eyebrow and smirk. The girl tips on her elbows, chin raised and closer than he normally lets strangers be. “You really are all that, huh. I guess I can see the hype.”

 _They have the same eyes_ , Keith thinks idly, a blue so dark it looks black.

Then all he can see is brown curls and feel lips pressing to the apple of his right cheek. Across from him, Lance splutters, hands flailing as he says something in rapid Spanish, embarrassed on Keith’s behalf. Rachel's responding giggle fills up Keith’s personal bubble until she moves away, nonplussed as she stands and responds back in kind before giving her brother a kiss on the cheek too. Another Lance-ish grin and she’s skipping away, ponytail swishing with the movement.

It takes a minute or so for Lance to reboot, flush receding. “Sorry about that. Rachel thinks anyone with fancy hair is fair game.”

The ghost of fingers skims along his cheek, tucking a long strand of hair behind his ear, and Keith fights against the urge to chase after the miniscule flash. Instead, he clenches his fists and stares hard at the other boy’s forehead. “She thinks my hair is fancy?”

Lance bristles suddenly. “Don’t get any ideas, Mullet.”

“I’m not.”

“Good.” A pause, filled with the talk of others, and then Lance is glancing over at him, lips quirked just enough to entice an excited flip of Keith’s stomach. “You wanna take the lions out for a spin? First one to the Atlantic wins.”

And isn’t that the bulk of it? Their relationship, two opposing forces that revolve around one another, waiting for that precise moment to either clash or conjoin. Lance, who fits so easily into people’s lives—seemingly without any effort at all too— sneaking his way into Keith’s, uncaring of the tight squeeze. It’s contradictive, how they can butt heads one moment and then share a smile the next. 

Nevertheless, he has every intention to accept the offer, because it’s been a while since anything has got his heart racing and there’s nothing that does the job better than flying. Every intention to pipe up a witty remark just to see Lance react and then take a running head start to the lion hangars while the other boy was distracted thinking of a suitable comeback. It’s second nature, the push and—

—pull of hands around his stomach, secured tight as he guides a hoverbike faster. The wind is strong and merciless as it snags at his hair, coming loose from the strap of the goggles he wears and curling erratically at his temples. The body seated behind him presses flush against him, chest to back and legs straddling warm leather, while a chin juts over his shoulder and a smile skims over the shell of his ear.

There is no destination, just a direction, always forward and never back. Forever forward, on and on and on. It’s nice and he’s happy, filled with content and a desire for it to never end.

“—kay? Keith?”

Like a whip, he snaps back. Gone is the upward sweep of handlebars, the press of palms against the base of his ribs, the wind buffeting his face— all the tell-tale signs of a joyride. In its place, the distinctive rush of a crowded canteen.

It takes a moment for him to recognize that he’s been asked a question and a moment more to realize that he has to answer.

“Nothing. I’m fine.” The lie rolls off his tongue without a hitch, floating in the air and saturating the atmosphere with its flimsy misdirection. It’s starting to become difficult to keep his breathing steady. “Actually, I just remembered that I have to pick up some equipment for my class tomorrow. Can we do a rain check on the race?”

Lance blinks. “Oh, um, yeah. That’s totally— of course. Next time then.”

“Next time,” he agrees, distracted. Then his body is on autopilot, knees unbending and back straightening as he stands, the eyes of the many digging into the back of his skull. He leaves before anyone can notice the way his fists clench, knuckles going white, holding back a dam of memories that aren’t his. He doesn’t look back.

* * *

By the time his class starts two hours later Keith has mostly calmed down. It’s time spent doing cardio drills, working up a sweat until all he can focus on is the burning sensation in his muscles and the accelerated beat of his heart. It leaves no room for anything else, narrowing the world into a single point, and that’s exactly how he wants it.

His students must notice how on edge he still must be, because when they walk in and he’s adding another ten pounds to his already maxed out barbell, not one advises against it. Even James, who always seems to have something to say, keeps quiet and simply nods when he brusquely instructs the lot of them to pick up a staff and pair up. They leave him be, though not without the judgmental look or two as they pass his station by.

But, in the end, it's not enough.

Not enough because even as he lays there, shirt plastered to his skin and the cushion of the bench molding to the trembling slopes of his shoulders and back, the flash somehow sneaks back. It hides in plain sight, stalking the length of his arms and tensing as they push the bar up and away from his chest, locking his elbows in a strain that isn’t healthy. Hides until he’s holding his breath, trembling under the weight and a second to utter collapse, only to surprise him with a reveal of phantom hands, transparent and long, following raised veins to the bony bend of his wrist.

Carefully, as if they were real, the hands run a thumb over his pulse, applying pressure until Keith feels like jumping out of his skin. A beat, loud and clear, reverberates through his body. It makes him want to let go and be held. But the weight of the bar nearly chokes him at the thought, recoiling in the suddenness of it all, and has the ghostly hands evaporating in a puff of smoke. Gone just as quick as they came, and he’s left with a bursting chest, gasping for breath.

No one notices his blunder, but it shakes Keith all the same.

* * *

Keith asks Allura about the flashes.

It takes a while, not because he’s gearing up to bring the topic forward, but because Allura is a hard person to catch in the months following the battle for Earth. It seems like everyone everywhere wants the princess’s focus, grabbing her outside of conference rooms and tailing behind her in hallways, proposals and questions alike dripping from their lips. It’s progress, imperative for the success of human and Altean kind alike, Keith knows, but still inconvenient when he’s tracking her down for a private moment.

But Keith is nothing if not determined, forgoing pinging her comm and scheduling time in favor of simply cornering her as she’s leaving the base headquarters after a meeting he saw her walk into an hour prior. He glares as the entourage that follows her, daring them to do anything other than watch as he grabs his friend by the arm and spirits her away.

“Keith,” she greets with a muted smile, following him down the outside corridor and to the south quad where a lone bench sits under a yellow palo verde. “To what do I owe the surprise? How are you?”

But Keith has no time for such pleasantries. Now that the moment has arrived, to finally receive an answer to an immortal question, he can’t focus on anything else. Making sure there’s no one within hearing distance, he makes his stand, feet shoulder width apart and arms crossed. “I need your help,” he tells her without preamble, pushing all the frustration from the last few days, weeks, months into his words. “Something’s wrong with me.”

The change is immediate. Pale eyebrows furrow and dainty shoulders square, kaleidoscope eyes zoning on him with intensity that matches a burning nova. “Tell me.”

So he does.

She doesn’t interrupt him when he speaks, merely sits there, ankles crossed and hands clasped delicately in her lap, and listens. Listens as he recaps his time in the quantum abyss. Listen as he recounts how the dark stars rose and set infinitely, blurring time in its most basic sense. Listens as he talks about the flashes, how they take over in the absence of sense. Listens to his frustrations at its perseverance, to its unyielding hold on his life. Listens to his want of its end.

“And this has been going on since you returned from the abyss?” she asks when he’s done.

He slumps next to her. “Yeah, and it’s only gotten worse since we returned to Earth.”

It’s quiet between them. Keith spends it anxiously rubbing his thumb over the jut of his knuckles, waiting to be reassured. Because if anyone can solve this, it’s Allura. Allura, one of the few remaining relics of the Old World, is a medium by which the universe communicates through. Whatever has happened to bring him to this moment must follow some precedent, something to pursue and procure.

“My people believed time was an limitless thing,” Allura begins after Keith has rubbed his skin raw, voice even and slow. “Something that the Life Givers had bestowed upon us in the age of chaos. Only those who knew the ancient art of alchemy could hope to understand its ubiquitous attributes. Some, like my father, even got close— discovering a source of energy that went beyond the simple science known previously.”

“Quintessence.”

Allura nods. “A substance with the highest known energy per unit volume in the universe. It has the power to alter and warp reality, creating rifts that might otherwise not exist. We saw as such with General Hira and her immoral troops.”

He remembers. The fight for the trans-reality comet and its precious ore, wanted by those who wanted _peace in every reality_ , but only accomplished in tearing it apart. He also knows that the subject is still a sore one for the Altean, a reflection of what could have been if things had been different.

“It’s thought that quintessence ties us to this world. That it is merely a means of creation, not the origin of it. It’s something to be harnessed, like with the Lions and your bayards— but you can’t have power without limitations. You need something to counter it, to maintain it...” She clears her throat. “I believe that the abyss may be a pocket of what used to be the beginning of our universe. A pocket that doesn’t follow the natural order of time and instead uses quintessence to warp it, existing in an almost limbo state. Trying to balance between past and present. Honestly, this is only a guess. I’ve never heard of anything like this, from my father or Coran otherwise.”

The information is a welcomed addition to the nothing Keith already knows, but it’s not a solution and he’s says as much.

Her eyes flicker downward. “No,” she says quietly, “I suppose it’s not.”

“But there is a way to stop this, right? Something you can do?”

The girl hesitates.

And doesn’t that just get his temper going. The girl who should have the answers, silent in the face of the question. “You don’t have anything,” he accuses just shy of harsh, breathing hard through his nose. “Nothing to help me?”

Allura covers his hand with her smaller one, flinching when he jerks away from the touch. “Keith, it’ll be alright. I’m sure we can figure this out. Together, with the help of the team—”

“Oh no, we are not telling the others about this.”

“What? Why not? I’m sure they would want to know.”

“If I tell them then I’m going to have to tell them what I’m seeing and…” Anxiety curls at the points of his ribs, unbridled and uncalled for, when he thinks about the flashes and what they might means. The thought of such private scenes translating from mind to reality, of being spoken into existence, is too much for him to handle. “I can’t— I refuse to do that.”

“I’m sure no one will judge you for what you see. Whatever it is, we don’t yet know if it’ll even come true. If you’ll just—”

“No, Allura.”

They stare at each other, stubbornly trying to convince the other to have their way. It doesn’t last long because he knows that Allura’s moral compass won’t allow her to do anything in disagreeance to his own well-being and that forcing him to do this will bring her in direct contradiction with such Altean ideologies; she looks away first, frowning in such a manner that it cracks her symmetrical face, and the win goes to him.

“Alright,” she agrees grudgingly. “I won’t tell the rest of the team, but,” she adds quickly when she catches him letting out a breath, “you’ll come to me if they start getting worse. Of course, I’ll be looking into any surviving Altean archives to see if I can find anything that might explain this phenomenon, but any changes at all and I’m the first to know. Okay?”

“Okay.”

They shake on it, like its some big business deal.

“And am I allowed to ask what the visions entail?”

She looks to be genuinely curious and it elicits a fight or flight response in him, not that he acts on either of them. But it still has him tensing abruptly, boots scraping against the dirt in a involuntary twitch.

“No,” he says and that’s the last of it.

* * *

Until it's not.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Following the dumpster fire that was s8, I made a few modifications to the plot. Not much—because I actually want people to enjoy the ending— but enough to where things make sense. For those of you worried: no, this will not run with the finale canon. So many of the characters deserved better and I'm just a dude trying to give it to them.
> 
> Thanks to everyone who commented and kudos'd! You guys are all so sweet and really making me want to continue with this! I'm so glad you're enjoying my writing— extended metaphors, vague allegories and all! As thanks for all the support, I give you an 11k chapter!

The flashes grow more intense.

At first, they had been an inconvenience. A flash here and a flash there, arbitrary like flipping open a book to a random page. Aimless in its intent of stealing Keith’s time but an ambitious thief nonetheless, sifting through his cove of memories and hoping to strike gold amongst desert sand and bruised knuckles. Both passages of time, locked away in a tilting hourglass and behind porcelain skin, they are fleeting in thought and consequence.

That is, until they decide to stay.

Then it becomes a problem.

A problem he can’t fix because the scenes played out are narrated by some omniscient being, unreliable with its knack for embellishing the color of the sky and the clouds that ride the breeze, and wholly unwilling to take criticism. For somewhere between leaving the quantum abyss and stepping foot on Earth soil the universe had decided that Keith’s story was far from over and needed to be told. What had been weekly is now daily. Streams of them, disjointed and vague, bobbing in the shallow depth of his foremind. It takes over, dissolving reality in a curtain call to a life that couldn’t be his.

One minute he has his hand on the doorknob to Shiro’s apartment, twisting, and the next he is walking into a stranger’s home, steps faltering at the tinkle of wind chimes and the sight of Kosmo curled up on a plush armchair, fast asleep. Past the backdrop of the muted television is the sound of running water and soft humming, running lackadaisical fingertips over the threadbare rug under his feet and the bookcase bursting with scrapbooks and bent paperbacks. Gossamer drapes sway in a draft let through the open windows, refracting the sunlight through their soft lens. He squints, blinded, and—

A face shrouded in light, beaming with happiness. _Welcome home, Keith._

—he’s standing in the middle of Shiro’s apartment, not knowing when or how long he’d been standing there.

The walls are pale and the furniture minimalist. It’s a bit too pristine for Keith’s taste, everything in a place and a place for everything. For someone like Shiro, who’s always needed to have everything beyond flawless to justify his own dream in the face of a chronic illness, the space is perfect, but Keith is cut from a different cloth. Worn and rough to the touch, he expects the world around him to reflect the same. Brief as it was, he misses the flash and nearly wishes it real.

“You okay?” Shiro is asking, turned completely in his seat at the kitchen island and staring at Keith, reading glasses slipping down his nose; they look suspiciously like Adam’s but Keith isn’t going to say anything about that. “You kinda spaced-out a bit there.”

“Uh, yeah,” he responds quickly, throat dry. He rubs at his eyes with the jut of his palm, willing the vision away for good. “I just”—a deep breath, even and slow—“forgot about… something. It’ll come to me eventually.”

“If you say so.” But the older man doesn’t look entirely sure, frowning that frown he does whenever Keith says something particularly dismal about his past. Thankfully, he seems to understand Keith well enough to know better than to delve deeper— yet. “Did you wanna get started on the security detail for the coalition conference? The Unilu are sending a party next week and want to know if Voltron will be there to escort them out of their solar system…”

Constantly standing at the cusp of something almost real, Keith waits to be pushed over the edge.

* * *

It gets tougher to keep things under wrap with the flashes manifesting whenever they like. Most of the time he can blame the lapse in concentration on fatigue or even mishearing, but Keith knows that people are starting to catch wind that something is— not wrong, per say, but that something is definitely going on. Keith is not known for his inability to focus, but, rather, his to inability to stop.

“People are getting suspicious,” Allura tells him the third night in a row he had snuck into her room on the Atlas. Scattered around her are countless scrolls coveted from what had remained of the Castle of Lions’ library, brittle to the touch and written in a language he can’t read. Her mice lay about; Chuchule hidden in the curl of white hair, Platt napping under the makeshift tent of a book and Plachu and Chulatt lounging on Keith’s knee. “You could be a little more tactful in how you go about things.”

Having already heard the complaint more than once, Keith simply rolls his eyes and focuses on the translator in his hands. It’s slow compared to the almost instant reaction time of those that had been on the castleship, but it’s progress nonetheless. “Yeah, well, it won’t matter once we figure out what’s going on with me. So if you could focus on reading and doing just that, that’d be great.”

Allura huffs up a storm but does what’s asked of her.

It’s a little easier having someone else know, Keith must admit. Makes him feel less like he’s drowning and more like he’s treading deep water. With Allura around and in the loop, Keith doesn’t have to pretend when a flash hits him, scrambling up a dumb excuse or making a hasty retreat. She merely sits next to him, hand on his arm and leaning in, and waits for it to pass. There is no pressure of secrecy when it is done, just a smile he haltingly returns and a murmur for them to get back to work; not that that stops him from keeping to himself anyway (though Allura has made her opinion on _that_ blatantly clear), but the thought is still there.

As if sensing his want of confidentiality and purposefully scorning it, the device in his hand beeps, causing them both to jerk to attention. _Match found_ , reads the screen and Keith nearly topples over a pile of dusty books in his haste to get the scroll he had been translating into the princess's hands, upsetting the mice. Allura is just as eager, ripping it from his grasp and shoving her nose into it, going cross-eyed as she reads its faded ink.

“What does it say?” he asks impatiently.

Allura doesn’t answer immediately, instead unrolling it further and frowning in her effort to make sense of the words bared in front of her. After a solid minute of reading her eyebrows rise up in surprise. “Wow,” she murmurs in wonder. “To think that all this knowledge was at my fingertips this entire time. How foolish of me not to delve into the archives sooner.”

“Well?”

“First off, we were right in thinking that there might be a connection to what’s happening to you and Oriande. The translator worked and this scroll details the supposed creation of the realm.” Her eyes start glittering, wide like full moons. “It’s a realm, did you know that? Not another dimension like we originally thought. There’s a difference: a dimension can exist in a limited amount of space, but realms exist in all of them. How fascinating.”

“I know this is all great and awesome for you, but can we focus here? What does it say about the abyss?” Allura doesn’t so much as twitch. “Allura. Hey— what's it say?”

Almost reluctantly, she looks up and away. But when they are finally level with each other once more her face takes on a specific expression, the one where she talks science and alchemy and diplomacy. Perceptive and fierce. It’s one of calculation.

Out of pure instinct, Keith leans away from it. “What is it?

“You haven’t come into contact with pure quintessence recently, have you?”

“Uh, no.”

“How about during your time in the abyss?”

“I don’t think so.”

“You don’t think so or you don’t know so.”

The way she beats around the bush causes a spark of annoyance to run through him. “I’m not sure if you know this, princess, but I lived on the back of a giant, space whale and you don’t just find vats of pure quintessence lying around. I’m sure if there was any, we would know about it.”

Another eye sparkle, as if she’d been waiting for Keith to say as much. “Speaking of ‘we,’ how does your mother fair with the visions? Are they more taxing with her age? Do they happen just as often as your own? It’s possible that the visions are connected through you both, through familial relation. Maybe we could ask and compare experiences between the two.”

Keith twitches. “Ah, no, she doesn’t get them anymore. They stopped a few days after we arrived on the castleship.” He looks away, wincing against the guilt that ravages his insides when he recalls her relief when telling him of the news. She had been so happy and Keith hadn’t wanted to ruin it, so much so that the lie had rolled off his tongue without a moment’s thought. “She actually doesn’t know that I still get them. I haven’t… well, I haven’t told her.”

Her brows turns downward. “Keith.”

Keith shakes off the chide, clearing his throat. “It doesn’t matter. She doesn’t need to know, not when we finally have this.” He gestures to the scroll still held loosely in her hands. “You said there’s a connection, right? And that it’s got something to do with quintessence, I’m guessing.”

Allura looks as if she wants to talk more about Keith and his choices in life, but doesn’t know how to continue without upsetting Keith himself. Eventually, she sighs and nods, laying out the scroll between them and placing her ever-compliant mice at the corners as paperweights of sorts. They squeak up at them, watching Allura’s perfectly manicured finger trace a line. “It says here that realms are tied directly to the quintessence that makes up the world. It is the beginning of what was and what is and what shall be. The quantum abyss is a precursor to even that. From it or another like it, Oriande was made and from that, our universe. Just as I was tied to Oriande, it seems you are tied to the abyss.”

“But… why me?”

She tilts her head in thought. “Only selected Alteans can enter Oriande, a criteria held by what the Life Givers hold true. But the abyss is older and run by more… archaic principles. You are the first galra-human hybrid in existence, something never before seen in this universe or that of another, so perhaps it is your physiology. Maybe the fact is making you susceptible to the flashes in a way full-breeds and other species are not. Kinship in the form of novelty. It would explain why you are so sensitive to quintessence too.”

He nods. “Back when— before all this and Voltron was even a thing— I was able to find Blue. At first, it was just a feeling, but then it turned into some kind of obsession. I always thought I was going crazy, you know, chasing after some obscure cave drawings, but then we actually found her and…”

“It became real.”

“Yeah.”

She must notice something in his tone, because she leans into him and smiles. “It’s a good thing you trusted your instincts. Without it, we might have never met and the universe would be a much different place.”

“Yeah,” he says again. “You’re right. I’d rather deal with this than never meet any of you.”

Allura brings her hand to her heart, mimicked by the mice, all obviously touched at his words, and Keith flushes in embarrassment. He’s gotten better at conveying his feelings since being launched into space, but the action of voicing them still causes his stomach to flip erratically. It’s ridiculous, he knows, because they’ve had enough group hugs and heartfelt reunions to sufficiently define themselves as the makeshift family he’s always wanted, but the abandonment of his past has a way of following him into the prospect of his future and it’s a battle he’s raging even today.

“So,” he says louder than necessary, “let’s get back to… this.”

Allura clears her throat. “Yes, well, if we are to assume that you are still linked to the quantum abyss despite leaving its bounds and that link is quintessence based then it would stand to reason that quintessence might be the solution.”

“I don’t follow.”

Her hand cups his own. “I want to induce a vision.”

It's not what he was expecting and he says as much. “You want to— the flashes aren’t something I can control, Allura. They just happen.”

“You forget that I study alchemy and, though my knowledge is nowhere near complete, I am one of the leading experts on quintessence in this universe. If there is anyone who can guide you through a vision, it is me. I am a Chosen of Oriande.” Seeing his reluctance, she takes on a quieter tone, almost pleading. “Keith, let me try, please. This is all I can think of and I want to help. Something obviously went wrong when you and your mother breached the quantum abyss, and these visions could be attempts to realign what has been broken. If guided we could delve what they mean to fix and bring an end to this madness all the quicker.”

It’s the eagerness that does him in. Selfless in intent and utterly devoted to do the right thing, Allura is at the ready to prove herself in any way possible. Willing to give everything and more, guileless, she offers an upturned palm, putting the choice in his hands.

Hesitantly, he takes it. “Fine, but if anything goes south, you pull back immediately.”

“On my honor," she promises.

When her other hand settles on top of their clasped ones he does his best not to jerk away, spying the faint glow that emanates from the princess just as a low hum vibrates the air around them. Reminiscent of how his friend’s eyes blazed with power when she had cradled a husk of a man and brought life to it, he doesn't dare look up, fearful of what the act might induce— days, weeks, all of it lost in the possibility of a single moment. So he lowers his gaze to his knees, outlining the definite wrinkles that pull at the fabric of his pants and letting Allura take the lead, riding the wave as she dives into the caverns of his psyche.

There is no fight against the intrusion, Keith allowing her to tread deeper as he floats upon its deceivingly shallow surface. She dips a finger into the water that fills his mind, studying the ripples it makes with avid interest. A breeze of energy passes and he breathes deeply with it, eyes fluttering closed as something bubbles deep inside him.

At first it is a tentative thing, a mere whisper floating along the outskirts of thought. But then Allura pushes and it reacts, creeping ever closer; a shudder and it crystallizes into something real, a reflection of self. The apparition, colored red like a dying sunset, stares him down, face blank and hand spread over the transparent barrier that lies between them. Voiceless words channel through the connection and Keith, still aware of the projection of Allura at his back, goes to echo the gesture. Fingertips touch and—

—a flash, blinding light that rolls down the inverted buttes of his irises and tightens the coils of every muscle. Pupils dilate, widening until they are a chasmic gateway to the soul.

He falls and it is a timeless motion.

Like Icarus to the sun, he aims too high and burns upon exposure. Once gliding on vitreous wings, they shatter and break, condemning him to fall eternally. Images fly past him, telling of scenes already passed and yet to come. They are solar flares, arching high above the scope of his vision, assembling into a life that lies far beyond his ability.

Hands that are not his own stretch farther than he can reach. Stained a divine pink, they spread wide and seize at the images, pulling them inward. A pulse of quintessence and then his axis is tilting. For there is no up and down, no left and right, no back and forth. Simply a directionless force, reticent and resolute. Transcendental impressions, waiting to be acted upon. Ever waiting. Waiting for _creation_ , for _aspiration_ , for _vitalization_ , for—

—a field of flowers, white tablecloth and champagne glasses, an altar christened with tuxedos and vows—

—the heat of a fire raging, plumes of smoke rising from the ashes of a stranger’s home, clouds over the tombstone of a father buried—

—the roar of a lion—

—the weightlessness of falling, golden eyes in the shadows, a sword cutting through the air, the slumped form of a body in armor—

—a warm hand clasped in his own, golden ring glinting in the morning sun—

— _absolution_.

He resurfaces, gasping.

The world snaps back into place. Gone is the rush of predetermined destiny, leaving only the barren truth of now. He is back within the thrumming walls of the Atlas, surrounded by dusty tomes and military grade furniture, time resuming its reign and taxing him heavily as he regains control over his own breathing.

“We,” he pants, sweat already cooling at his neck, “are never doing that again.”

Allura is no better. She has her hands curled on the back of her thighs, leaning forward as if she can’t even support the weight of her own thoughts. The mice chitter worryingly, pawing at her ankles and wrists, only quieting when her altean marks flicker with residual magic and then die out. “Agreed.”

Phantom hands intertwine with his just as lips ghost over the corner of his mouth and Keith jolts to attention, muscles spasming as he catches the tail ends of the flash fading into the air. Head still aching and heart running a mile a minute, Keith forces himself to his feet.

The movement causes Allura to stir. “Where are you going?”

“Bed,” he says quickly. He feels ready to crawl out of his skin. “It’s late and I’m tired.”

She pushes herself to her knees. “But we haven’t yet determined the purpose behind what we saw together. If we are to believe that these are preeminent visions, then some of those images were your future. We may be able to use them to our advantage.”

The thought of delving deeper into what just transpired is nauseating. Some of the images had been nondescript enough for them to ignore, while others were in excruciating detail. There’s no way either of them had missed the significance behind some of the scenes, like the altar or wedding bands, and he dreads the questions that’s going to be asked of him

“There isn’t much to talk about. It didn’t give us anything to stop it or the war with, so.” He shrugs, hoping she’ll drop it.

Of course, it isn’t that easy. Allura thrives off knowledge and Keith is a treasure chest of hastily kept secrets just waiting to be plundered.

“I wouldn’t say that we didn’t gain nothing from it…” Her eyelids lower with her brows, giving him a side-eye that’s reminiscent of Hunk when he spies fresh gossip, only worsening when the mice begin to reenact some romantic shtick on the floor. Her voice is coy and has the impression of a cat that’s just got the cream. “Some of those visions were… quite telling. You have a bright future ahead of you, wouldn’t you say?”

Heat rushes to his face.

“Come now. It’s nothing to be embarrassed about. This war won’t last forever and when it ends we’ll be free to live out our lives, finding the happiness we so rightfully deserve. If that means finding another to live it with, then I hope we are all as lucky as you.”

Keith’s stomach flips. Mouth suddenly dry, he tries to think of something to say but can’t; trapped in the confines of his throat, they stay.

Love had always been a fickle thing for Keith, an almost affair that leads to heartbreak and broken promises. It’s something he can’t control. It rears its head in the most unlikely of places; in deep space, in between bubbling laughter and gunfire, a _something_ settling behind his breastbone, refusing to disappear even as the years pass. It takes many forms, sliding along the cradle of his mother’s arms or curving with the brotherly hair ruffle Shiro bestows, easy to swallow because they are things he has always yearned.

But what the flashes depict… it is a love that runs deeper. A cluster of stars tied with a cosmic ring of infatuation, born in an instant and lasting an eternity.

His shoulders hunch and his fists clench, contorting in the equivalent of a full body grimace. “Yeah, well, it’s just… whatever.”

Allura frowns. “Are you not pleased with what you saw?”

And how does he even begin to explain? The concern, the trepidation, because nothing is set in stone and letting himself hope is one step away from being let down.

For the flashes hadn’t really been a choice, not in this fold of time. In them he is stuck between yesterday and tomorrow, walking into a fate that might be deprived from him; he’s seen so much, flashes that blind him to what can be and what really is, painting him gray with longing. It’s years, months, week, days, seconds down the line, a tropical illusion amidst a desert of truth, blurry and just beyond reach. Tantalizing but deadly, because what he wants isn’t what he gets. And that’s the thing that hurts the most, the uncertainty.

Not that Allura would understand, he realizes. Love had never been in short supply for the princess, lavished onto her by a father, mother and kingdom. And he doesn’t blame her for that— would never compare the love she deserves to the love he lacks—but it still leaves him crippled.

So he takes a breath and clears his face of all emotion. “It’s late. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

He ignores her shocked face as he leaves, feeling the pinch in his temple and twist in his gut. Bitterness is an all-encompassing thing, but he runs from it all the same.

* * *

“Dad?” an eight-year old Keith asks on a summer night long past. "Why did mom leave us?"

Crickets chirp among the blooming cacti, loud in the stillness of the desert. Dust coats his boots and clothes from their hike into the canyon that day, rough against his skin but warm against the cold air that whistles over the dry grass. Faintly, from inside the shack, he could hear the low hum of the refrigerator. The moon, yellow and waxing crescent, hovers low over the distant horizon, highlighting the rugged features of his father’s face and throwing his nicked eyebrow in direct relief.

An ashen gaze is pulled from the heavens back to earth.

“Your mother,” his father starts with that smile he always gets when speaking about the woman he loved, soft and sad and wistful, “left to protect us— to protect you. She couldn’t stay, not if it meant putting us in harm’s way, but that doesn't mean she isn't with us. She's up there, somewhere far beyond, looking at the stars and thinking of us just like we're thinking of her. And it might be tomorrow or next week or even next year, but she'll be with us again. Some day.”

It’s the same answer he always gives and just like all the times before, Keith doesn’t believe it.

* * *

Keith fools himself into thinking that the world wouldn’t catch up to him. Thinks himself so far ahead and with time to let the dust settle that when things do come crashing down it’s like a hammer to glass. A shatter so abrupt that it cracks him wide open.

It starts with a thinly veiled interrogation from Shiro on the Friday following his talk with Allura, stuff packed with good intentions and gentle probes. A _you okay there, champ?_ here and a _how about we go out for lunch today and talk?_ there, slipping past the bitten lip of concern. And when he ultimately declines, it shifts to blatant coddling. Helpful hands and calm words, aiming to guide and resolve, but only succeeding in bringing the thoughts inside his head to a steady boil. Enough so that Keith not-so-subtly excuses himself from the apartment and heads to the training facilities on the Atlas.

It’s early and his class doesn’t start until another ten minutes and, as a result, he doesn’t see any of his students when he swipes his keycard to enter. Which is fine with Keith, because he’d rather not have to force out some half-baked nicety between people he barely knows. However, the thought is torn in two when he realizes that he recognizes a face doing drills with a kendo stick at one of the mats.

“Lance?” he calls out without thinking, loud with surprise, drawing the attention of said boy along with the few bodies that are already stationed at the machines.

Quickly and ignoring the stares that follow him, he makes his way to his teammate. The mat sinks slightly when he steps on it, putting him at the same level with the boy when he straightens from the fighting stance he had been practicing. He looks to have been there a while, sleeveless shirt sticking to his sides and stretching the width of his chest as he takes deep breaths, face flushed with exertion.

The blue paladin doesn’t appear at all surprised to see him, leaning onto the stick as he pushes his hair back. There are earbuds hanging from his collar, playing some muted pop song that he doesn't recognize. “Hey, buddy, fancy seeing you here.”

But Keith doesn’t register the banter-in-motion. “What’re you doing here?” he asks, abrupt and rude.

The teasing smile on Lance’s face dims slowly and it’s a painful thing to watch, more so when he realizes belatedly it was his doing. “Training,” the boy explains, scratching his neck and taking a quick sweep of the area before returning to him. “I, uh, missed my evening session yesterday and didn’t want to fall behind, so here I am.

“I didn’t know you trained.” Rude again. Why can’t he stop?

A flash of annoyance. “Well, I do.”

Keith backpedals momentarily. Tries to remind himself that Lance hasn’t done anything to deserve to bear the brunt of his frustrations. “Yeah, of course, I… sorry.”

Lance purses his lips, passing quick judgement. Eventually, he shrugs and loosens the slope of his shoulders. “It’s all cool. I don’t exactly make a point to live here like you do. Hear you took up a class teaching dudes how to karate chop bad guys. How’s that going for ya?”

“It’s going.”

That brings a smile back to the other boy’s face and Keith feels the cool water of relief run through his body when he lets out a small laugh. Not everything is entirely hopeless, at least. “Sounds riveting. I might just stick around and watch.”

There’s an unspoken challenge that Keith can’t quite decipher, but before he can even ask there’s the familiar _swish_ of the door to the training room opening, a gaggle of his students filing through, dressed in sweats and activewear. Hunk is with them, shouldering his own pack and chatting amiably with two girls, one dark-haired with glasses and the other blonde and freckled. Rizavi and Leifsdottir, if Keith remembers their names correctly.

Keith takes a step, then stops.

Seeing his hesitation, Lance punches him lightly in the shoulder. “Go on. I’ll still be here when you’re done.”

So Keith goes, passing by Hunk on his way and sharing a wave.

Back into the routine of things he acknowledges his students, waits for them to line up, guides them through some basic stretches, and finally starts demonstrating their first move. It’s one he learned during his time with the Blades, efficient when needing to get out of a sticky situation. Duck, lunge and roll. Simple and easy to be coupled with other maneuvers, best in close quarter situations.

Pairs are made and Keith walks among them, stepping in and adjusting stances whenever he sees the need, but watching for the most part. His students take his offered advice seriously, fine-tuning their movements accordingly and only ever needing one or two demonstrations until they get it right. It’s impressive and entirely reflective of what he’s read from their files, all picked from the cream of the crop with the scores to prove it.

However, it’s not twenty-five minutes into the class, just as Kinkade executes a perfect lunge, rolling out of Leifsdottir’s surprisingly aggressive assault, that Keith gets distracted.

Amidst the flurry of fists and grunts, he spies Lance and Hunk. There’s nothing exceptionally ostentatious about the pair that rightly explains the way his gaze is caught so suddenly; they follow the basic pattern for a spar, circling and engaging at appropriate intervals, unassuming in how they exchange blows and playful words. Nothing to justify why he ignores his students and instead focuses on how Hunk’s burly left arm swings in an arc so wide that Lance has to duck out of the way or be gifted a black eye, the lanky boy slipping back into range with his fists at the ready in a decent boxing stance. Nothing but his own prying eyes to blame, ensnared onto the the sharp angle of shoulder blades as Lance twists into a kick that catches the bigger boy straight into the gut.

He chalks it up to his own restlessness. It’s been a while since he’s allowed himself to do anything outside the Garrison’s work-out regimen, too busy with restoration of Earth and his classes, and his body longs for the familiarity of close combat. To hold a sword in his hand once more, to feel that extension of self, pointed and dangerous and in control. In the throes of gunfire, a soldier, first and foremost, falling back on instinct alone.

Idly, he wonders if Lance would say yes to a spare if he asked.

“—tch out!”

Pain erupts in the back of his head, sudden and sharp. A noise between a grunt and a yelp erupt from his mouth, skewed as he attempts to twist himself and face the attack, only to trip over his own treacherous feet; the weight of it strikes him down, jaw smashing to the floor, unforgiving.

There’s a flurry of activity around him, voice rising in shock. Distantly, he feels more than one set of hands make to touch him, gripping his biceps and shoulders, and haul him onto his back. White spots dance in his vision, floating just above the harsh lights of the room and the fuzzy outlines of the people that crowd him, flickering in and out of existence as he tries to get a hold of his bearings.

A few seconds of dazed existence and he can actively decipher the muffled noise into words.

"Hey, is he gonna be alright?"

“Wow, Curtis. I can’t believe you just drop kicked a paladin of Voltron.”

"That looked like it hurt."

“I didn’t mean to, I swear! It was an accident! I didn’t see him and— and who just stands in the middle of a sparring zone? Plus, Jason did the move _way_ too fast and I couldn’t stop my spin in time!”

Another voice, lowered in an effort to soothe. “Hey, hey, hey. It’s okay. I’m sure you didn’t mean it— no one’s blaming you, okay? Breathe. Just give him some space, yeah?” A little louder. “All of you, back up and give him some space. Back to your drills. Hunk, could you...?"

They must follow the order because things go quieter. Quiet enough for Keith to focus on his breathing and the throb that pulses at the back of his neck, wincing when he feels a faint touch to the tender area. He groans deep in his throat and shifts uncomfortably on his tail bone, forcing his eyes to open and squint past the pain until the world sharpens into clarity.

Front and center is Lance, brows furrowed in worry. “You okay, man?”

He offers a hand and Keith takes it, sitting up. The immediate rush of blood to his head makes him dizzy and he sways just a bit, fingers tightening around Lance’s even as his other hand rises to prod at his temple.

“What happened?” he asks.

“I didn’t actually see it but apparently you took a mean one to the head. Caught you when you weren’t looking— just a good ol’ heel to the face. Judging from the size of Curtis’ feet, I’m betting it’ll bruise.” Lance looks to him, frowning. “You need an ice pack? I can run and get one. Or I can take you to the infirmary myself. I know I joke about your mullet, but not even bad helmet hair can stop a concussion.”

The infirmary is the last place Keith wants to end up. The risk of being found out and having his flashes the focus of scrutiny is too high and Keith would rather suffer possible head trauma than deal with that. Not to mention the unbearable mothering Shiro would dote onto him once he realized his worry was justified, accumulative tenfold by his own mother once she heard of the news herself.

“Yeah, no, I just zoned out for a second— totally my fault. Just need to walk it off.”

"Are you sure?"

Slightly disoriented and a bit bruised, but nothing a good rest couldn't fix. He's seen worse, been through worse, and can take care of his own. "Yeah, it's okay."

“I don’t know, you’ve been lookin’ a bit scruffy the past few days. Me and Hunk were just talking about how maybe something bad is rolling through the base, like the space flu or yalmor pox— I’m not sure the second one actually exists but Coran didn’t technically say no when we asked, so…” He shrugs, like it's water down his back.

"I'm fine, really."

“I really wouldn’t mind going with you. We can catch up while we get you checked up.”

He’s not sure what exactly, but something about that has his hackles rising in defense. Maybe it’s the fact that Lance is so obviously pushing something he doesn’t want. It’s insignificant and well-meaning, but Keith has been living in a constant state of anxiety for the past couple of weeks, strained under the pressure of the flashes and keeping them locked away, and the words eat away at his fortitude. He can’t even pinpoint the reason this moment is the breaking factor— can’t even explain the fuddled mess of thoughts prior to the embarrassing kick in the head or why the pressure of Lance’s hand in his feels too much. Doesn’t know why and _hates_ it.

“I’m _fine_ , Lance" he snaps prematurely, biting his tongue by accident and tasting copper. Lets the taste fuel him, push him past what he knows to be right. "Why are you asking? Did Shiro put you up to this? Is this why you’re really here? God, I already told him—”

“Woah, woah, woah. Hold up.” Lance looks taken aback, palms outward in a gesture of surrender. “Shiro didn’t say anything to me. This is me asking all on my own, okay? No need to bite my head off.”

Keith breathes hard, looks away, and attempts to get up. He can feel Lance watching him, struggling to get his feet underneath him, eyes narrowed as he makes no move to aid his clumsy limbs; it’s a look that sticks, seeping into his pores. Tension, high and thick, fills the space between them, but Keith, for once, doesn’t rise to the bait. Lance, unfortunately, has never been one to let things go.

“Why would Shiro need to talk to me about you anyways? Is there something I should know?”

“No.” Finally, he makes it to his feet, knees popping in protest. The ache in his head is worse when standing, but he ignores it. “There’s nothing to talk about.”

Lance rises too and pushes forward in a way that is solely them, challenge-like, close enough that Keith can see the speckles of brown in his eyes and feel his breath when he speaks. “Does it have something to do with how you and Allura are hanging out every night?”

His chest pinches tightly and it’s an oddly familiar feeling.

It furrows his eyes and thins his lips. Hard like stone he becomes. “Let me rephrase that. It’s nothing that concerns you.”

A pause.

Then, “Ah, okay. I see.”

It doesn’t immediately process that he’s said something wrong. It’s not until the other boy makes a face, scrunched up and twisted like he’s just sucked a lemon, that he’s even aware that something could go so wrong. But it could and it does. For there's definitely something wrong about the quiet chuckle that comes out of Lance's mouth, too much like the gurgling end of a drowning man.

Lance rocks onto his heels and shakes his head in this genuinely uncomfortable manner. Usually, the close proximity of the blue paladin wouldn't phase him, as used to it as he is by their constant squabbling, but something about the other’s face— the hard angle of his eyebrows maybe, or even the pressed line of his mouth— puts him off kilter. It's enough to have his mind stutter to a confusing stop.

“I don't know why I thought…” The boy looks up at the ceiling, closing his eyes and somehow makes Keith feel like there’s miles between them. A deep breath, “Fine.” Then he straightens and smiles something self-deprecating, gaze sharp enough to cut glass, walking past him so abruptly that their shoulders knock together. “Look alive, Team Leader. Your class is waiting for your orders.”

Keith stumbles, turning with the move so as to watch Lance head toward his gear and pack everything away. Watches him mutter something to Hunk and the other gym goers, hiking his bag over his shoulder and head straight to the door. Watches Hunks casts one, last worried glance over at him before following his best friend, door sliding shut with a quiet _swish_.

Watches him leave.

* * *

Hidden under a blanket of shooting stars, he lets himself fall— in body, in mind, and in love. Arms of the sea cradle him, lifting him above the surf when the dark depth threatens to drown. Glistening, ever bright, it leans in close and presses a secret into his skin.

 _You can have your place_ , it whispers, _but first you must want it_.

* * *

It’s Hunk who finally corners him the next day, appearing just after Keith returns from an afternoon jog around the base with Kosmo, exhausted as he leans against the wall for support and unable to escape. For he is a wanted man, running from the many and the few, desperate to succumb to his own self-inflicted wounds. Lips cracked and throat parched, he swallows the sticky saliva that coats his mouth with increasing discomfort, watching his friend walk toward him from under the curtain of sweaty bangs.

Kosmo has no qualms about the company, wagging his tail when he gets a ruffle of the ears and a piece of jerky from the the boy’s stash of snacks. It’s betrayal in the most truest sense.

“Hi,” Hunk says, taking a seat on the ground next to him.

Keith gives him a small nod, using his towel to wipe away the sweat clinging to his heated skin. “Hey.”

“You have a nice run?”

“Yeah, it was good.”

“That’s good.”

It’s quiet between them. Keith bent over his folded knees, still catching his breath, and Hunk just sitting, staring straight forward. There is no pressure in the silence, the yellow paladin’s easygoing nature lulling any and all tension just with his mere presence. Though, like all things in Keith’s life, it's only a matter of time before it breaks.

“I talked to Lance.”

And there it is.

It may be selfish, but Keith doesn't want to have this conversation. Doesn't want to be here, in this moment, in this position. Doesn't want to play this game of telephone with his teammates. Doesn’t want to be the reason this problem exists.

“How… how is he?”

“He’s a bit upset. Wouldn’t really tell me all of it and got really quiet when I pushed, but I think he’s more frustrated that it took such an ugly turn than anything else. Probably wasn’t expecting you to be so… you.” Something about it doesn't sit well. Hunk shouldn't be the one saying this— it should be coming directly from the source, from someone else, from Lance. “He did promised to behave, so that’s something.”

Internal dissent parts his lips. “He doesn’t have to… It’s not his fault, not really. I’ve just got— a lot going on, okay?”

“Figured as much. Still would’ve been helpful to know though.”

He lets out a frustrated huff. “It’s my stuff and I don’t want to…”

Hunk hums.

“Plus, you know how he can be.”

"Yeah, I do."

Another pause and it’s nice, to have someone there that just _gets_ _it_. Keith has never been one for words, has never excelled in stringing thought into something more concise. Not like Shiro or Hunk or Lance. And the world doesn’t care for boys like that, like Keith, who would bite the hand that feeds him.

“Look…” Hunk starts and Keith feels it like a kick in the gut. “Lance is one of my best friends. He’s the reason I went to the Garrison in the first place— begged me for weeks to register with him, saying that I was too smart to waste it by staying on the islands. Always been like that, in case you were wondering. Loud, pushy and full of opinions.” He chuckles, the sound peeters off into a tired sigh. “I’m only saying this because I know sometimes he can be… a lot, especially with the rocky start you two had. But he’s a good guy, I promise. He’s just— sometimes he’s got these ideas of himself and everybody else that don’t really represent reality, and it makes him… sensitive to things.”

“Are you saying Lance is sensitive to me?”

He gives a pointed side-eye. “Lance has always cared what you think of him.”

Keith frowns and shifts so that his ankles cross, wrapping his arms around his shins and wiggling his toes until Kosmo growls softly at him. He had known that people had envied his intuitive skill in piloting, no one being discreet about the words they said to his face and behind his back, and maybe he had distanced himself because of it. But it hadn’t matter, not when he had Shiro. Not when he could count on his friend-turned-brother to have his back, to listen when he talked, and to inspire him when the rest of the world let him down. To think that someone out there— and Lance of all people— had been admiring him in that same light, looking at his retreating figure and wishing for just a single glance back.

“You’re a hard guy to read, Keith, and an even harder guy to impress.”

He winces. “I don’t mean to come across that way. You guys have nothing to prove to me.”

“Lance doesn’t see it that way. You guys have always had this— _thing_ , and well, old habits are hard to break, I guess.” He shrugs and Keith sways with the force of the motion. “We’ve spent a lot of time together up in space. Got to really know one another. But I think sometimes we forget that we aren’t all the same and experience everything differently.”

Keith thinks of Allura and his flashes. How something so anxiety-inducing for him had been celebrated.

“I’m not asking you to share your life story or for you to apologize, cause I know that you didn’t ask for that made-up rivalry or whatever it is your going through right now, and it’s not your fault that Lance feels like this. It sucks that you’re in the cross-fire and I would change it if I could, but this is just something he has to figure out himself and until then— if you could just lay low for awhile.” He must seem his responding grimace because his tone gets a bit frantic, evidently distressed at the thought of distressing Keith. “I don’t mean it like that, I promise. Just— like, you know, not do anything in retaliation. Even if he starts it.”

He remembers Lance in the beginning, unreasonable and needlessly challenging, and dreads returning to it.

“Yeah,” he still says. “I’ll keep out of it.”

Hunk sighs in relief. “Thanks, Keith. You’re a good friend.”

Keith gets a pat on the back and then the yellow paladin is leaving, back to his family and Shay and the rest of the resistance. Kosmo whines a little, obviously missing the company he’s gotten so used to during their long travel back to Earth, but settles down when he pets his flank. In a move that forces Keith’s knees apart, the large wolf settles his head in his lap, ears alert and eyes focused on his face.

“I thought things would be easier when we returned,” he tells the wolf quietly, knowing the animal doesn’t have the answers to his problems. “But things are all mixed up now. I kinda wish we had stayed in space— everything was so much more simpler.”

Kosmos licks the pad of his thumb.

“Thanks buddy.” Keith smiles, fond when a bushy tail thumps against the floor. “Lance probably just needs some space. I’m sure this will blow over soon.”

* * *

It doesn’t blow over soon like everyone says, not even within the next few days. It gets worse, slowly and deliberately, enough so that he starts resorting to desperate measures. First and foremost, avoiding Lance.

It's not the most mature thing he's done and there is no denying the nauseating shame that comes to a boil in his stomach, but Keith doesn't know what else to do. Usually, if there had been a problem between him and another student back before Voltron, Keith would force it into the light and hash it out right then and there. But this is different, feels different, because Lance isn’t just some vague face roaming the halls anymore; he can’t just swing a fist and call the score settled, not if he wants to retain what they’ve made together. Friendship with Lance— with the entire team, really— is something he cherishes and has grown accustomed to, leaving him reeling without its easy grace and sincere intentions.

No more secret smiles or casual arms draped over his shoulder. No more thoughtful water bottles found by his practice gear or dumb challenges over who can finish the warm-up sprints first. No more playful banter or dumb puns.

Instead, he gets to watch as Lance stands to leave a room he just entered or purse his lips in a frown when he can’t, folding his arms and looking anywhere but at him. There are no heated arguments, no snippy comebacks, or even quips at his expense. Lance doesn’t speak to him at all and it’s that much worse, Keith decides. The silence is a pike between them, glaringly obvious to their friends and anyone who remotely knows the two of them, killing conversations and moods dead in their presence.

It’s nothing like Hunk said it would be and he can see the other boy sending the blue paladin concerned looks throughout the days, always ignored and always brushed off when confronted. This puts Keith even more on edge and he falters in his next move, wanting to take action and wanting to keep the peace. Because if even Hunk doesn’t know what to do, then what hope does Keith have?

So Keith does the one thing he knows how. He ignores it, pushing forward and past with a single-minded focus, training in the hours not spent sleeping or teaching his class. He pretends that Lance isn’t there, forcing his eyes to glaze over his stooped form and to keep away when the silence starts to become too suffocating.

It’s unhealthy, he knows, but it’s familiar.

Strangely, while Lance makes himself scarce, it’s Axca who takes his place.

The half-galra, now working alongside MFE pilots, seems to have worked her way around the Garrison Galaxy base. He sees her around constantly. Roaming the hallways of the Atlas, lingering outside the tech labs, sitting alone in the canteen, unloading fresh shipments of scaultrite at the landing docks. She’s everywhere, always aware and looking up to meet his questioning gaze with a twitch of the lips and sharp nod.

She starts joining Keith in his workout sessions, quiet as she greets him and focuses on the weights she lifts. There is no exchange of words, just the muted thuds of metal meeting polyester and their huffs of breath— and it helps, surprisingly enough. It helps to have someone there. He never says why he’s there so often and she never asks; no burning judgement or well-intended advice, just two people existing within proximity. It’s the understanding of two outcasts, bonded through blood shed, allies lost, and debts repaid.

Eventually, they start sparring together and it’s a breath of fresh air. Axca is a challenging adversary, quick and rational as she parries his blade and aims a short jab at his left side that'll definite bruise. It reminds him of his time with the Blade, learning to use the weapon of his birthright and parrying the strikes of his fellow Marmorites when they practiced. It didn’t leave a lot of room to talk, but it did leave him stronger.

People come to watch them, sometimes. Peering through windows and beyond door frames, individuals of every kind of life and species watch them. The gazes of many tack onto their forms, ever curious of them and the Galra empire they supposedly represent. Keith ignores it to the best of his ability. Axca, for her part, appears to not notice their accumulating audience, focused solely on the fight at hand, sliding through the forms with ease and deadly precision acclimated with experience. She matches Keith’s every swing, expects every lunge, and parries every strike.

Shiro stops by whenever he’s not busy, watching with thinly veiled pride and offering constructive criticism on how to better their form. Pidge and Hunk visit too but only so that the former can sass them from the sidelines, ignoring the scandalized looks received when she cups her hands against her mouth and makes an obnoxious farting noise whenever Keith takes a hard tumble. Romelle likes to come with his mother, cheering when Keith gets in a particularly impressive hit. Only once does Allura show up, giving a beatific smile to those present before wiping the floor of both Keith and Axca in a record breaking minute and forty-two seconds.

It would almost be as if nothing was wrong if not for the blatant absence of a certain blue paladin.

And it isn’t as if Lance is indisposed. He’ll see the boy walking with Matt and his new alien girlfriend or the princess somewhere, obviously on break from his duties, matching their strides like he used to do with Keith. 

It always brings forth a particular memory. The universe’s last chance drifting, five nobodies linked together by the arms of necessity, crusted with frost and one hysterical outburst away from splintering. Overcome by thoughts once locked away, slipping to the forefront with an edge that promises fracture, they are exiled, launched out of the mouth of a deity. Desperate, afraid and wishing to be swallowed whole.

Like cosmic dust, they float aimlessly in a seas of stars. Insignificant and dwarfed by the extensive scope of space, they are paladins without a righteous cause. Run through by their own failures, self-inflicted and refusing to heal, hoping that no one sees that they are less than what they are; but the damage is done and they pounce on one another, exploiting weakness in the name of preservation.

 _Maybe you should have stayed away_ , and it’s sharp canines digging into the vulnerable flesh of his jugular. A snarl, vibrating with malice intent, and he is left in pieces. Broken.

It hurts like nothing has hurt before, but he takes the pain and makes it his. Braces himself for a fight, brandishing sword and teeth just to survive. A thousand moons light the sky and he howls to every one, bristling under their pretense of companionship, knowing he does not belong.

For he is a wolf in a lion’s den, desperate and alone.

And when he’s pushed himself past his limits and is a moment away from collapsing, can no longer stand the sight of the empty space beside him, he retreats to the stillness of solitude. Shoulders hunched and muscles aching, he makes his way to the Black Lion; the large cat lets him in easily, silent and solemn in the wake of leadership.

* * *

It’s a week into his self-isolation that things change.

The Garrison officials are gearing up for some big symposium, puffing out their chests and marching down the hallways with self-crowned importance oozing from every salute. It causes a rippling effect across the base, because suddenly more and more coalition ships are descending into the stratosphere by the day, bringing with them convoys of resistance fighters and the idea that soon their way of life will be no more; it seems everyone everywhere has things to do and no time to do it. It’s hectic and loud and everything Keith hates.

Hates it so much that he retreats to the library on the Atlas. Pristine as most new things are, the grand room is filled wall to wall with journals and tomes and star maps from planets all across the universe. Shelves run perpendicular to the main entrance, broken only by the holo-database that sits in the room’s center, organized and tended to by small drones. Humans and aliens walk through the scaled-down labyrinth, chatting quietly to themselves and the crisp pages they turn, nearly overshadowed by the low hum of the AI librarian cataloging new arrivals.

Settled in a tight-spaced alcove on the second floor, Keith finds himself curled on one of the many spherical chairs with a holoscreen held loosely in his grasp. It _pings_ with the notification of newly received messages, but they go ignored as he stares listlessly at the open email, text glaring in the lamp light.

 _Mandatory team meeting_ , the screen reads.  _It’s time to end this war for good._

The quiet of the library is in direct contrast to the loud buzz in his ears. Only the books are privy to how his thumb runs anxiously over the side of his knuckle, the only indicator of the turmoil that churns inside. Though Keith was never one to let his things like feelings of doubt stop him from doing what he wanted, the storm inside his chest does put a damper on his resolve, binding his muscles in transparent chains that left him paralyzed at the very thought of seeing the face of the person he’d been actively avoiding for days. Forced through shared responsibility, this meeting would bring the two together in close proximity and Keith doesn’t know if the world would survive such a collision.

It’s then that a voice, distinctively feminine, breaks through his internalized frenzy.

“Can you believe how things turned out?” the bodiless being says from just beyond the nearest shelf. Close enough that it has Keith looking up sharply, turning off his holoscreen like he’s got something to hide, and leaning slightly out of his seat to get a look at the person who’s disturbed his bubble of privacy. “It’s wild, isn’t?”

“So wild,” another voice agrees, accompanied by a bob of blonde hair through the spines of Puig encyclopedias. “I wonder how it happened.”

“What do you mean?”

“Like, what do you think set them apart?” Another flash of hair, cinched in a high ponytail and a bright red bow. “Those cadets. Why do you think it was them that got launched into space and not some actual pilots.”

“Professor Shirogane was with them too, you know.”

“Yeah, but you know what I mean. Plus, he was already MIA when it happened. Which, totally sketch, by the way.”

It takes a long moment for Keith to connect the dots and realize that the strangers are talking about him— him and his team. There’s some irony to it, he thinks, that the Paladins of Voltron, legendary defenders of the universe and wielders of the most powerful weapon seen in this world and the next, can be reduced to something so juvenile as hearsay. Brows furrowing at such a distracting thought, he shifts so that he’s facing away from the pair, ears perked despite the voice in his head advising against it.

A third person is talking now, a boy. “Didn’t you have fighter class with them, before? What were they like?”

There’s the shuffle of books being taken off the shelf, opened, flipped through and returned. ”Well, Kogane didn’t talk much, though he got caught in a few fights. But that was before he started his private lessons with Professor Shirogane.” A huff of thinly veiled laughter, slightly muffled like it was being pressed against the back of a hand. “No one knows what they did, but that didn’t stop people from guessing.”

“No way,” the first girl gasps, scandalous.

“My roommate says that she would see them go on rides outside of Garrison grounds— wouldn’t return until after hours sometimes”

“They are pretty close…” someone else Keith can’t see murmurs. “But wasn’t Professor Shirogane getting married to Professor West? Full offense to Kogane, but I wouldn’t even hesitate dropping him for a taste of Professor West, or even Shirogane for that matter. Have you guys seen the size of his arms?”

A low rumble of agreement follows the declaration and Keith makes a face in disgust. It was hard to see the two men in such a light since he had been thirteen at the time and had been privy to their shamelessly domestic habits. There was no going back once he’s seen Shiro nearly burn down the kitchen trying to make premade lasagna and Adam’s arm blindly grasping outside the bathroom door for toilet paper he himself had forgotten to replenish.

“Okay, okay, so Kogane is emo and a charity case. But what about the rest? I hear McClain was a cargo pilot, and he still got chosen as a Paladin. Garrett too, only a mechanic. If I was some sentient space robot, I’d at least pick a batch of decent pilots and not some wannabes.”

“You’re just salty it wasn’t you. Plus, Garrett is the sweetest guy out there. Same with McClain. Cute too.”

A bark of laughter. “Now who’s projecting?”

There’s the sound of a hand meeting skin and someone’s half-hearted squawk. “You know that’s not what I meant. He’s way too annoying and high maintenance for me. Don’t you see him always in the other paladins’ business? No thank you.”

 _Vwoop_. The librarian materializes next to the group, outside of the shelves and directly in Keith’s line of sight, causing everyone to jump in surprise and at least one book to be knocked over. “If you’re going to be disruptive,” the pixelated voice tells them, humanoid in shape and colored a neon blue, “then I’m going to have to ask you to leave the premises.”

The group, scolded, leaves with not another word, the watchful eye of the AI following them before it too flickers out of existence and Keith is left alone once more.

He sits there for a long time. Long enough that his legs start cramping badly and the occupants of the room start to thin, going quiet and solemn like the only way inked pages can. It leaves room for thought, chaotic and introspective, fixated on the idea of life and what it means to share it. To stand at the edge of an infinitely large gorge, look to the other side, and think, _I will cross it_.

There are no bridges in space, nor is there a concept of time and what it means to lose it, and Keith is suddenly hit with understanding of what's been taken away from him.

* * *

A hand on his shoulder startles a gasp out of him. He looks up through his bangs and meets the gaze of the blue paladin, steady and clear like a lake. They stand in the shadow of the Black Lion, waiting to crown a leader.

It’s the start of something new.

A transition from _Lance and Keith, neck and neck_ to _Lance and Keith, back to back_. A partnership of equals, pushing to the pull and rising to the fall. Where one falters, the other is there to take the slack. It’s the sound of a pistol charging a mere second before a soldier’s blade can meet its mark. It’s the sight of Red’s hull in the middle of a rolling maneuver, shredding through the fighter jets tailing him with one swipe of a massive paw. It’s the hands tugging at his forearm, accompanying exasperated words for him to put down the holoscreen and join the team for movie night. It’s the solemn  _I respect the Black Lion’s choice_ , loyalty given wholly and irrevocably.

It’s them.

* * *

It’s purely by chance that he runs into Lance later that day, seated at an antique piano pushed to the corner of an empty room in the Garrison’s north building. He’s not in his armor or usual get-up and it throws Keith off, blinking in muted surprise at the sight of a short-sleeved hoodie and dark jeans when the boy turns to face the door he had just barged through. Dark navy meets gray obsidian, painting a thunderstorm on the canvas of the moment.

Keith stands awkwardly in the doorway. “Hi.”

“Hi,” Lance responds out of reflex, tone polite even with the tension that vibrates between them. “What’re you doing here?”

There’s no backlash at his presence so Keith takes a chance and finishes walking into the room until he is standing right at the piano’s bulky edge. A quick glance around reveals the room’s roots as a recreation center, complete with a three piece couch, television set, and foosball table; it’s unfamiliar like most things that are vaguely related to community are, unfrequented in his past because of their breeding grounds for possible social interaction. It’s almost uncomfortable to be there, out of place as he feels, especially so when seeing how natural the blue paladin looks framed by the domesticity of the late afternoon sun. So uncomfortable that he fixes his gaze resolutely on Lance’s hands, slender fingers still poised atop of the keys and at the ready to continue what Keith had rudely interrupted.

“I didn’t know you could play the piano.”

Keith must have done that thing were he goes too long without blinking again because Lance squirms a little in his seat, retracting his hands and hiding them in his lap. “Oh, uh, yeah. My mom’s a big fan of Einaudi and, well, you know how it goes. First it’s one piece for her birthday and then another for mother’s day and then boom, you’re stuck in lessons every Saturday afternoon while everyone else kicks it at the beach.”

Inhibited curiosity stirs within him, rolling with the image of a young boy whose feet don’t even touch the floor, practicing his scales just to see his mother smile. It brings forth a longing that Keith hardly ever feels nowadays, one where it is his own juvenile self that bashfully holds out a newly-drawn picture of his family to his mother, happy and not torn away from him by war. A cycle ensues, one where curiosity turns to longing to jealousy to acceptance and back again, endless like the thrum of a piano string.

Lance opens his mouth, as if to say something to fill the space between them, but suddenly thinks better of it and presses his lips tightly together.

“What?” he asks, because he has to know.

“Nothing. You just look ready to deck me. The staring is… it’s just— kinda intense.”

“Oh.” Keith shifts from one leg to another, grimacing, and looks away. “I didn't mean to.”

“It’s fine.”

A short silence follows his words and it's a weird one. It isn't uncomfortable per se, just… loaded, like someone crammed the world’s entire supply of pillows in between them and was surprised that they couldn't breathe. Keith isn’t sure if he’s supposed to speak up, to fill the blank page of this chapter with the ink of words, so he watches Lance’s leg start bouncing in rapid fire instead, knee making a soft thud whenever it bumps into the underside of the key bed.

Lance clears his throat. “Do you… want to sit down?”

“Uh, that’d be— yeah.”

He sits on the corner of the bench offered to him, careful to keep space between them. Uncertainty seeps through his skin, coloring him with its vacillations, and it’s frustrating because touch is one of the many things that Lance excels in. A nudge to his calf, an impromptu hug, a brush of their shoulders as they walk. Effortless, like few things are.

“You can…” He makes an aborted gesture at the keys. “… if you want.”

And so he does.

Eyelashes flutter and Keith watches their shadows billow over the slope his cheeks, combating the highlights that the sun casts through the open window. A balance of two worlds, night and day, coming together to form wondrous twilight. He thinks of being seven-years old and trying to outrun the setting sun, one leap away from skipping today and landing in tomorrow. It’s a finish line he had never crossed.

Slow, like the sun and stars and moon will wait forever, Lance places his hands back on the board. Weightless, they hang there, letting gravity bead together a string of notes. It’s soft, the song he plays, and Keith listens as it grow into something bigger; profound as the universe’s birth had been, a cacophony of collisions and violent chance, it is its death that will be remembered, a lull into a oblivion so sweet that it’ll have the cosmos sighing.

As if compelled by some higher power, his gaze drifts back down to the boy’s hands. They’re nice hands. Long fingers with wide knuckles, the jut of his thumb straight and his nails cut even. Tendons rise under smooth skin, a parallel to what must be happening under the piano’s lid, and it's enthralling to watch. There are no music sheets anywhere in sight and Keith marvels at the idea that these fingers are moving on memory alone; from nothing— something, a paradox that only a soldier’s hand, molded to the grip of a pistol and a single squeeze of the trigger away from snuffing out a light, can know.

Lance hums as he plays.

“I’m sorry.”

The apology pushes past his lips and takes with them a great weight from his shoulders. He’s not exactly sure what he’s sorry for, but knows that he can’t stand much more of this. He misses Lance. Misses what they had, stupid rivalry and all, and is willing to set the world on fire for a chance to get it back. All he needs is a chance, just a single chance to make it right. He wants to make it right.

"Lance," he says, swallowing hard. "I miss us."

Truth makes the words heavy, filled with everything Keith can’t say but means. It’s one of the sincerest things he’s ever said, second only to _Shiro, you’re like a brother to me_ and _I love you, Mom_ , and he thinks there’s going to be more to it. More begging and more heartfelt turns of phrase, milked for all that it’s worth. But none of that happens and he’s left with Lance, solemn-eyed and soft, just nodding once and saying, “Me too.”

And for once, he thinks, that’s enough.

* * *

That night a flash hits him while he sleeps.

Long fingers trace the grooves nestled between treasured ivory and reflective black, teasing at a melody that skims the mind. A single note sings, the precipitate of a feeling long in its coming, harmonizing with the delicate _pitter-patter_ of the rain that knocks on the window pane. It’s peaceful, cool in the absence of worry and responsibility.

“Any requests?”

Movement, languid and infinite. The sweep of hair as he lowers his head, lips parting, breathing a burning declaration into the skin of another as his hands explore; the body in his lap shivers as he bears down with venereal intent, inhaling and exhaling in time with the world. A gasp and nails dig deliciously into the meat of his thighs.

“I… I don’t think I can play _that_ on the piano.”

“I can help,” he murmurs.

The music that comes after is like nothing he’s ever heard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case anyone was wondering, the piece that Lance plays is [Nuvole Bianche](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4VR-6AS0-l4) by Ludovico Einaudi. It's really beautiful and one of my all-time favorites, so I highly encourage all of you to take a listen.
> 
> And that ending is a little saucy, right? Consider it a look of what's to come. ;)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was originally longer, about 5k longer, but I ended up splitting it between this and the next for sake of flow. I just have so much I want to put into this story, so much canon that I want to fix, yet no time or skill to actually do it. Realistically, I can't recreate all of s8, but fuck, am I gonna try.
> 
> Excelsior, my dudes.

In the solitude of the dark, the bodies of the fallen are what guide him. They, garbed in uniform and life’s regrets, stand in salute, nameless in the wake of victory that has yet to come. Kindled by the same fire, they are mirror images of one another, holding insight in one hand and judgement in the other. They turn to face him, asking what he will do— what he is willing to give. All or nothing.

 _Knowledge or death_ , they whisper.

It is a secret, tied to the hilt of a blade.

A phantom of resistance that resides in a burning world, twitching fingers tracing over the edge of a blade and the slide of a hood over a faceless body. Shadows rise from the ashes, willing to fight the emblem that’s carved onto their tombstone. One falls and another takes its place. So is the way. So is the world.

_Knowledge or death._

He is among their ranks, tense and determined behind the mask he hides behind. Recycled air, taken from the lungs of the parted, filter though, drying the tears he won’t allow anyone to see. It distorts his thoughts, jumbling the words of the universe, breaking apart and reassembling with not a thought of accuracy. Speaking to him in a whisper, stagnant in a blazing inferno of stars.

_Knowledge or death._

Pain is the toll he must pay. Payment in the form of pin needles dragging along his spine with the intent to scar, torturing his nerves slowly.

_Knowledge or death._

Something wet dribbles down his nose, marking him red in the light of Naxzela. It splatters on the floor, seeping into a crust of hexamite; metal, broken and warped, cradle him in a coffin of sacrifice. The shadow of the universe’s greatest defender looms over him, smoke billowing out of its mechanical eyes even as his own glazes over. Wrangled, his body convulses with the beat of a bomb set to detonate. Tick, boom, and silence.

Thoughts crash against his skull, lifeless in desperation, creating fixtures that threaten to burst. Skin burns, fires of gold seeping into his pores and ravaging his insides, muscles spasming and screaming for salvation. He wants to stop— please, he wants to live— but can’t.

_Knowledge or death._

He chooses.

* * *

The team comes together on an unassuming Wednesday.

The wind is strong that day and it tugs at the flags hoisted onto the pole outside the base, hooks clanging against metal and thick fabric thrashing. Playing the dry air like a flute, it serenades the miniature dust devils that dance across the desert horizon and over the grounds. People hold onto their hats and portfolios, squinting against the invisible obstacle, cautious of what becomes of unattended papers and their fate as nature’s playthings.

Safely nestled inside the main conference room of the Atlas, Keith sits at the room’s long table, stuffed in a crisp, new uniform and back ramrod straight in an uncomfortable chair. To his left is Lance, hands folded on the tabletop and settled on the report he has yet to open, leaning away and murmuring something into Allura’s ear that has the girl giving a short-lived smile before manicured hands are pushing him away. Down the line is Hunk and Pidge, the former busy shuffling anxiously through high-profile papers while the later watches in utter boredom. At the table’s head is Shiro, head held high as he talks about Galran movement in the Outer Rim, flesh hand pointing at the hologram that rotates slowly in front of him.

Other members of the coalition sit opposite to them, dressed to the nines in flowing robes and thick belts; behind them are an assortment of guards and influentials, proper and focused in a way that makes Keith’s own frown second-rate in comparison.

“We’ll have the Atlas act as headquarters while we make our round across the universe. The Galra Empire has already been broken apart, but we need to make sure that it stays that way,” Shiro is telling them, already twenty minutes into the briefing. “Just like Sendak, countless of generals are striving to gain territory through conquest in an effort to get the throne. If we stop enough of them, it’ll force the rest to step down. It’s asking for a lot, but liberating planets from residual Galran rule should be our first priority.”

“And how will Voltron play a part in this?” asks one of the coalition councilors.

That’s Keith’s cue.

He leans forward. “Whenever we come into contact with a planet that needs liberation, Voltron will be dispatched to target the main center of operations for the Galra. It’ll be heavily guarded and built, so Atlas and coalition weaponry won’t be able to penetrate its fortress. With the rest of the resistance giving cover fire for the first waves of attack, Voltron will make quick work of it and the ion canons that they have stationed around the base. Without their nerve center, they’re as good as dead.”

One of the councilors, a humanoid alien with crosses for pupils and two sets of elvish ears, fiddles with a ring on their clawed finger. “A sound strategy for sure, if not a little elementary. But are we to expect that your human pilots are to be at the head of this operation? Though Earth is home to the paladins, it is greatly behind on many levels— it was only until recently, through altean means no less, that you were even able to produce fighter ships that could withstand travel at sound speed. I think I speak for many of us when I say that it would ease the minds of both our troops and allies to know that more… experienced individuals were guiding us through this dilemma.”

A wave of murmurs follows the declaration. From across the room, he can see the team of MFE pilots, hands clasped behind their back and faces carefully blank.

Shiro, ever astute, breaks through the stretched moment. “This mission calls for the best of the best, regardless of station and species— and though Earth hasn’t been in this war very long, we still have as much to risk as the rest of the coalition. The entire universe needs to be put back together and focusing on the who rather than the why isn’t getting anyone anywhere. This is war, people, and we’ve got no room for mistakes. Or egos, for that matter.”

A few individuals still side-eye each other, obviously wanting to say more but unwilling to be the one to actually say it. It leaves things… strained. Both sides, human and alien, seem to want to oversee the upcoming few months; frustrating as it is, pride and the promise of glory are jewels in which people still crave, polished until they blind those that horde them and locked away so that the thieves don’t get robbed themselves. Convincing someone that something is right is one thing but convincing them that they must pay to make it so is another matter altogether.

From behind the paladins Keith can hear Coran hum out some semblance of an opinion and it causes Allura to straighten in her seat. “I’m sure,” she says, face smoothing over in a curtain of political neutrality, “we can all agree that what’s best for the universe is most important. It does not matter who strikes the final blow— as long as the blow is given. We will all reap the rewards when this wretched war is over and peace is back within our grasp.”

Hunk speaks up. “We all want the universe safe, so I don’t think it matters who does what, as long as they do it right.”

“Yeah, what Allura and Hunk say.” Lance leans back, the epitome of lax, the hand dangling over his chair’s arm just barely brushing the back of Keith’s when he shrugs. His voice is clipped, enough so that it would sound rude if not for the charming smile he sends the line of aliens’ way. “Plus, I don’t think this is anyone’s first rodeo. We’ve all been around the block a few times, which makes us all great at what we do. The universe is in safe hands.”

It seems that the blue paladin’s appeal isn’t all talk because his words reach their audience. Two of the councilors nod in understanding and one goes to far as to outright grin at the boy.

From his position at Shiro’s right, Sam Holt coughs into his fist, hiding what looks to be a smile; the look and the man’s scraggly beard contrast directly with the sharp cut of his uniform, flaunting three decorative stripes on the shoulders. He sends a look to his wife across the room, subtle enough that Keith only catches it because he’s already looking. “It’s still a long way to go and there’s still much to finalize.”

Colleen seems to get the message, coming forth with a, “I’m sure the paladins need to look into their own preparations. If everything is to run smoothly when we take off then they’ll need to appraise the lions— Commander Shirogane as well, with the IFG-Atlas. At any rate, they won’t be needed for the following discussion.”

It’s a backdoor to freedom and they take it.

Pidge shoots up from her seat, obviously over the grown-up talk and keen to get back to her lab on the ship; the girl offers her mom and dad a quick side hug before bolting out of the room at a speed that could leave skid marks in the floors. If the council takes offense to her eagerness they do not show it, simply tipping their heads in delayed farewell when the rest of the team rises to follow her.

The doors close behind them, only seconds before Shiro’s hand zooms and catches the back of their youngest teammate’s collar before she turns the corner and out of sight, pulling her back even as she struggles. “Not so fast, Pidge. We still need to talk as a team.”

“Aw, but I was going to test out my flamethrower prototype for my project.” She pushes out her bottom lip and lays on the puppy dog eyes thick, clasping her hands together and looking entirely fifteen. Sweet as sugar. “Can’t we do it later? We’ve already been stuck in that meeting forever.”

The force of the look is enough to have even the toughest of sergeants rethinking their resolve. Shiro, who’s always had a soft spot for the girl, wavers.

But before any call could be made, Lance butts in with a, “Your creepy robot can wait.”

The mirage is instantly broken as Pidge scrunches her face in an unattractive scowl. The girl whirls on the blue paladin and pinches him in the arm, ignoring the boy’s high-pitched squeal and easily dodging the swats he sends her way. “Chip is not creepy! He’s innovative and beautiful; the face of the future! At least, he will be when I actually start building him.”

Keith doesn’t say anything about the matter but he spots the grimaces that the rest of the team try to hide. They had all see the schematics of their youngest’s new project, detailed notes on dimensions and potential upgrades utilizing all kinds of human and alien tech, and while the science behind it was irrevocably impressive, the superficial designs had been… less appealing. Eyes too big and a nutcracker jaw had left most unsettled at first glance, but no one had had the heart to tell the girl in fear of bursting her bubble of excitement at the prospect of technological advancement.

“Unnerving is what it is,” Lance continues. “Hunk agrees with me. Tell her, Hunk.”

The callout is enough to have everyone’s attention shifting like clockwork, pinning on the bigger boy in question, who shifts at the center of it. “Haha, okay,” he fakes, openly sweating. “Well, you see… I didn’t… I never said it was creepy.”

“Nuh huh. You totally did. You said it had a face only a mother could love.”

“That’s not what I said.” Hunk pointedly looks up and away when Pidge furrows her eyebrows in obvious question. “I said that it was a good thing it was artificial because no mother could love that face. But I never _technically_ said it was creepy.”

The sellout is apparent and Pidge gasps, affronted. Even more so when she looks around for support but finds none, Keith avoiding her piercing gaze along with Shiro and Allura. It’s amazing how such a small person can have them tucking their tails between their legs with only a look.

“I can’t believe this.”

“Well, believe it.” The blue paladin watches her cross her arms and huff loudly. He frowns, throwing a hand over her shoulders. “Oh, c’mon. Pidgey, don’t be like that. We’re just saying that it could use a few adjustments, not that it isn’t great. Add some eyelids and a nose and I’m sure it won’t look like the devil’s greatest mistake.” When he doesn’t get a laugh, he pouts and lets his feet slide, leaning his entire weight onto her tiny frame. “Why don’t you base it off someone? Maybe that’ll make it less creepy.”

That does get a reaction. “Base it on someone?”

“Yeah, you know, draw inspiration from life.” The boy frames his chin between his fingers, teeth sparkling. “I know for a fact that my face would look great on anything.”

Keith catches Allura’s eye and rolls his, face going carefully blank when Lance pivots to catch the reason for the princess’s resulting giggle.

Before any kind of childish argument can break out the door to the conference room swings opens once again, surprising all of them. They watch as the MFE pilots file out of it, quietly bickering amongst one another.

Hunk peers into their faces, asking, “Aw, you guys get kicked out of the meeting too?”

“I don’t wanna talk about it.” James says the same time Leifsodottir says, “Yes.”

“Sucks to suck,” Lance deadpans, shoving his hands in his pockets.

Keith watches as the the two groups merge into one with little to no effort. Hunk and Kinkade start up a heated discussion about what he thinks is yeast, nearly drowning out the fast-paced chatter about a makeshift mall on the base the girls dive into, all of them smiling wide when Lance and James offer to tag along. Somehow Shiro had managed to angle them in the direction of the deck, the older man sending Keith an amused grin over the heads of their companions, unperturbed by trivial talk and its irrelevance to the world.

Allura grabs his arm. “You should come along too, Keith.”

“Sure,” he agrees without really thinking.

It’s odd, being part of something so… normal. Moving from foster to foster home had left some dubiousness about what identified as run-of-the-mill, but this— this is something else. A war is waging around them, decrepit and bleak, and here they are, acting like things are better than they seem. It’s light, shaving down the weight of their responsibilities, a window into what could be considered as _after_.

The concept of the future had never been something he looked into— well, not past tomorrow. Not profoundly anyway. From the day he had buried his father it had always been _get through today, just get through today_ and _if you can make today, then you can make tomorrow_. It had been a dismal kind of existence, but it had been his; a bushel of nettle he had sown and made his bed in, dreaming of nothing as he slept among prickly blossoms. Lackadaisical stings of the morning sun to wake him, rising to another today.

But things are different now, he supposes. Now he has people to call his own, a life to call his own and maybe even a future to call his own. Well, if he’s to believe the flashes anyway— and maybe he does.

Oh, how he wants to believe it.

Wants that _after_ just as much as he wants the _now_.

(Firelight flickers along the edge of his vision, staining everything a lustrous amber.

A scene of contentment greets him. Plush cushions, fuzzy socks, and the smell of cinnamon. A table filled high with food, steam rising from mugs and one space wolf nosing along the edge of a platter filled with assorted meats. The faces of his team, stretched into snapshots of cheer. Laughter, bright and loud, echoing through the halls of a familiar looking home, cozy and warm against the backdrop of night sky that clings outside the frosted window. His own mother leaning into frame, smile soft and genuine as she offers a wrapped gift.

 _Happy Birthday_ , someone says. _Here’s to another year_.)

A boisterous laugh jostles him back to reality. They’ve arrived at the bridge in the span of his trance, fracturing the quiet that had preceded them, and Keith belatedly blinks at the few crewmembers still lingering around; they salute only once Shiro’s steps forward, more than one starry-eyed gaze sneaking a glance at the junction where his elbow should be.

“Finally!” A voice, nasally and idiosyncratic, speaks from just beyond the raised dais in the middle of the room. “You should have been here two doboshes ago! Ugh! Now I have to recalibrate all my calculations!”

Then a familiar face, whiskered and billed, slides into view. Behind him, Shiro groans.

Slav folds two of his arms, centipede body bending back so he can glare at the group as a whole. His bushy tail quivers behind him, puffing up to twice its normal size and nearly hitting the unsuspecting woman in the navigator’s seat nearby; too worked up, the bytor doesn’t seem to notice. He marches right into their ranks, curving around both Pidge and Allura in a move that make’s Keith’s back ache by just looking.

“Do you know the likelihood of our total annihilation is now that we’ve started two doboshes late? It’s down zero point forty-six percent!” He waves his primary pair of arms in the air and Keith automatically makes to lean out of the way. Bulbous eyes zero in on him, growing bigger when the alien leans in close. A sound mixed between a huff and a chitter is aimed at him. “And will you look at that! You’ve gone and added another variable! It’s going to be one of _those_ realities— I can’t believe it! Making my job all the harder!”

A bolt of lightning shoots up his spine. “What.”

But before anything more can be said on the matter, the bytor scurries away. Three of his eight hands pick up a holoscreen from the supply on the table, frantically swiping and scribbling down equations that look like a language of their own. “Now I have to do everything over again! We’re all doomed!”

“Whoa, can you actually see different realities?” Rizavi’s eyes are wide and her hands are clasped eagerly together as she zooms over and peers down at the centipede alien. “That's so cool.”

Shiro makes a pained expression. “Please, don't encourage him.”

But it's already too late. Slav catches wind of the topic and, raising three fingers on three separate arms, begins to lecture on the real magnitude that is the multiverse. It goes on long enough, and to enough depth, that even Coran’s excited smile from over the main console begins to waver; Rizavi herself has begun to look constipated, feelings mirrored in the tortured expressions the rest of the MFE pilots put on behind her. And when Shiro’s eyebrow ticks, Keith expects some kind of impeding explosion.

Yet it never comes. It never comes because Lance is launching himself forward, half sprawled on the staggered console and leaning close to the aggravating alien, chin propped on his upturned palm, and asking, “Okay then, Mr. Smarty Pants. What's the probability of Shiro being able to bench press Kolivan in this universe?”

Without missing a beat, the alien replies, “Zero point zero, zero, zero, zero, zero, zero, zero, zero, zero, zero, zero, zero, zero, one, three, five.”

“And what about where I beat Pidge’s top score in Killbot Phantasm I? How many realities has that?”

“Four hundred and sixty-six trillion, and one.”

Lace whoops while Pidge, easily distracted and a sore loser, loudly demands a recount. It becomes something sort of a game after that. Calling out trifle things and waiting for the theoretical engineer to give a long-winded value, each player getting more and more outrageous in their suggestions as time passes. Even Shiro offers a reality or two.

“Oh, oh, oh! How about Lance being secretly altean?”

“Zero point zero, zero, zero, zero, zero, zero, seven, four, one, three, seven.”

“That's actually pretty high,” Hunk notes with an interested hum.

“Yes! What about Hunk? There's got to be some universe out there where Hunk is balmeran and he and Shay have thousands of rock babies!” He grins wickedly at the squeak the bigger boy lets out, flush high on his cheeks and refutations stilted as they spill out of his mouth, but Lance is already moving on. “Oh! Pidge, wouldn’t it be cool if you were an olkari? It would, wouldn’t it?”

Pidge pops up at his elbow, cleaning out her left ear with her pinky. “I don’t know. I could go without the whole one-with-nature thing.”

“Oh, right. That really isn’t your forte, huh? Well, how about unilu? Four arms would be hella cool and, I mean, you’re already a goblin so you’re halfway there anyway.”

The girl flicks a piece of earwax at the blue paladin, who throws himself bodily away to hide behind Hunk. Pidge doesn’t acknowledge their twin expressions of disgust when it lands on the main screen of console or when she absently wipes her finger on her thigh. “Coding would be much easier if I had two extra hands.”

“Wish we could visit that reality. Then we could all hang out and be aliens together. That’d be so awesome.”

“How would that be any different than right now?” Keith asks, not understanding the hype.

Lance rolls his eyes and starts to answer before his mind zips to another train of thought. His hand goes flying, not-so-accidentally hitting the red paladin in the chest, but he blatantly ignores Keith’s muttered ‘ow’ in favor of whipping back to face the rest of the group. “Oh! I got another one! Is there a reality where I'm not plagued by Keith's greasy mullet?”

This time Slav makes no hesitation. “No.”

Lance erupts into laughter, dramatic and over the top like this is the greatest joke he's ever heard, and Keith feels himself scowling. Still, he’d rather have the teasing than hear the alien complain about their statistical failures and his lucky range of terahertz. It’s a blessing when the console lights up and a notification flits across the screen telling them of the teludav’s online status. Slav, having unconsciously purged the almost mental breakdown from his mind, perks up and scurries over to his designated chair at the helm, sparing them not another glance.

“Rachel is the same way when she’s nervous,” Lance says casually as Slav proceeds to calibrate the machine, answering a question nobody asked, head angled Keith’s way even though he's talking to the room at large. “She would go through every bad outcome in her head until she psyched herself out— only way to snap her out of it was to distract her with something else until, eventually, she forgot what she was so worried about. Though she was more of a history junkie than anything else, so probability and statistics are kinda a stretch for me, but, hey, whatever works.”

A miniscule flash hits him. Not-there-fingers reach to fit between his own fisted ones, unwinding the tension and rubbing a soothing circle into the jut of his thumb. It’s casually intimate, learned in behavior and habitual in nature. A blink-and-you-miss-it moment.

“Alright, alright.” Shiro interrupts. “Let’s get back on track. What’s the status on the lions? They were pretty beat up during Sendak’s siege.”

Coran peers between Slav’s second and third arm, combing a thumb over his mustache. “Most of the repairs are finished. We’re just waiting for the upgrade on the Blue Lion’s sonar and to fix one of the Yellow Lion’s hind paws, which is still bent a fifteenth of a degree too far inward. It won’t take more than a week, I reckon.”

“That gives us just enough time to assemble the rest of the coalition one last time. If we cross paths with Haggar, we’ll have to make a stand and give it everything we’ve got. Prepare for a long journey ahead.” He turns to Keith and the team, and he can feel himself standing straighter with the attention; the older man notices and smiles. “One more thing. It’s our last night on Earth and we’ve got a long journey ahead of us, so I’m ordering you all to take some time for yourselves. Be with the ones you love.”

* * *

The days following are filled with goodbyes.

All around the base, people cling to those they hold dear. Impartial to rank— commanders or cargo pilots, stripped of everything in the face of sacrifice— it sweeps over, all encompassing. Tears are shed, hugs are given, and promises are made. Every lingering touch and whispered word is a herald for what’s to come. A final farewell, stamped with a military seal of approval.

For the most part Keith sticks to the sidelines. He’s well-versed in the art of goodbyes, but, for once, doesn’t have any to give. Everyone who’s anyone is leaving with him. His team, his mother, his wolf. All of them, keeping within reach.

Krolia and Kolivan will be joining them on the Atlas for the first quarter of their trek back into space, setting up a relief unit aboard the ship before they go looking for the remaining members of the Blade that might still be alive. It’s something Keith has always known would happen. Loyalty to their own, something that runs deep in his own veins, have guided them this far and will continue to guide them even further. And if that loyalty takes them away from Keith for a while, then so be it. It is a consolation though, knowing they’re capable to face whatever comes their way and only a call away should Keith need them.

It’s these reasons that Keith forgoes the goodbyes and instead finds himself sitting atop the Black Lion’s head with his space wolf for company, watching the sun set on what could be one of his last days on Earth.

He’s sits in silence for ten minutes before Kosmo’s head is swiveling behind them, ears perked. Seconds later Keith can hear someone clambering out of the open hatch behind him, footsteps bringing them closer until the body belonging to them drops into the place beside him. A quick look and he’s looking into ocean eyes.

“Man, you can be a real hard guy to find when you wanna be,” Lance says, kicking his legs over the ledge. He angles his face up. “You watching the sunset?”

“Yeah…” He sighs, returning his gaze to the horizon. “It might be awhile before we get to see it again.”

“Yeah, I’m gonna really miss this place.”

Looking at the golden touch of the clouds draped over the shoulders of the distant mountains, Keith can’t help but agree. They’ve seen their fair share of planets, each one more extraordinary than the last. Some with floating islands, waterfalls of citrine dripping over the edge and straight to oblivion. Others with fields of colossal blossoms opening under the light of twin moons, humming as they start their migration to the fire pits of the planet’s core. All of it, strange and wonderful and breathtaking, things beyond anything he could hope to imagine, and yet— nothing could hold a candle to the wonders of an Earthen sunset.

“You know,” Lance starts, voice melting under the fading light, “when I was younger, I always wanted to live among the stars. But now, I’m not so sure.”

Keith tilts his head until his temple presses against his knee, tracing the other’s gilded profile. “Having second thoughts?” he teases.

“More like just thoughts in general. About how crazy everything turned out and how this… this is where we’re at, you know? Just, I don’t know, sometimes I wonder if I’m really cut out for this kind of stuff. I mean, who would’ve thought I’d be one of the guys saving the universe— me, some kid from Cuba. It’s just… sometimes it doesn’t feel real.”

“Am I hearing this correctly? You, Lance McClain, are saying you don’t think you’re fit for space exploration. Are you okay? Coming down with that space flu, are you?”

His friend cracks a grin. “Nah, man. No space flu here. Didn’t you hear? I’m a Cuban boy, and we’ve got immune systems made of steel.”

“Well, that’s good to hear. I was worried for a second there, because the Lance I know should never doubt whether he’s cut out for this stuff. Saving the universe is in the name.” He leans back onto his hands. “That’s how we’re gonna win this war. With the Lance that’s the paladin of the Red Lion. The Lance that’s always got my back. And the Lance that knows exactly who is and what he’s got to offer.”

He thinks about a distant memory, of two lost boys finding each other in the depths of a planet made of storms. Thinks about drifting through the fog, full of regret and self-doubt, and looking up into the luminous eyes of the Red Lion, a beacon of certainty in a world full of misgivings. Remembers admitting a mistake and having it cupped in the hands of the boy next to him, offered back with an olive branch growing amidst the roots of his palm.

A shoulder knocks into his. “Thanks, Keith.”

He knocks it back. “Anytime.”

They go back to watching the sunset, a comfortable silence settling nicely between them. Minute by minute, the sun lowers itself down into the cradle of night. A sheet of stars follows, twinkling in a lullaby the moon croons, silvery and sweet. It becomes a waltz across the sky, in perpetuum, so close that he feels like he can reach out and join them. To walk among them until he reaches the fold of the skyline, take that final step and fall off the precipice. The final distance.

“To the end of the universe,” he murmurs absently.

“And back.”

Keith turns his head. “What?”

“To the end of the universe and back,” Lance repeats, the faded glow of the sunset caressing his face and coloring it gold, softening the edges until he’s his own miniature sun. It takes half a minute of Keith not responding for the other boy to continue, gaze detaching itself from the sight before them almost reluctantly and meeting his own, aiming to blind. “What's the point in going if you don't have anywhere to come back to?”

And Keith doesn’t have an answer for that, not one that’s true anyway. For Keith had always wanted more than what he was given, always looking ahead in hopes that it’ll distract him from what he’s left behind. First it had been the thrill of adventure, then a desperate search for a mother thought gone and now— now, it’s to keep safe what he’s made.

“To the end of the universe and back,” Keith finally says, quiet and thoughtful.

It sounds like a promise.

* * *

“Be safe,” his mother tells him that night when he returns to the apartment, cosmic wolf curling around her calves. The moonlight bounces off the luxite of the blade she presses into his palm, catching every groove of the weapon, alien and familiar. Not a goodbye, but a blessing and a plea. “Be safe and come back to me.”

 _To the end of the universe and back_ , he thinks as they hug, willing the words to be true.

* * *

By the time they’re to embark, the entirety of the base has congregated together to see them off. They fill up the Atlas launch bay, watching the group make their way to the lions seated at the ship’s base; a gradient murmur rises to existence upon their appearance, getting louder and louder the closer they get. People start waving and soon there are flashes of pictures being taken, documented for all of time. It’s wild and overwhelming, and Keith nearly stumbles in his footing.

“Woah,” Hunk murmurs.

The bigger boy looks a bit green when Keith glaces over, shoulders hunching up to his ears in partial embarrassment as he offers a hesitant wave to a little balmeran sitting atop its parents’ shoulders. At his elbow, Pidge appears fascinated, excitedly pointing out the drones that seem to be filming the procession. At Keith’s other side, Lance, always comfortable in the spotlight, preens at the attention, giving the crowd his best smile— all pearly whites and boyish dimples— and signature finger guns. Ahead of the four, both Shiro and Allura take it all in stride, exuding authority and grace as they nod to those screaming their names.

They make it to the stage assembled in front of the circle of lions without a hitch, walking past the line of officials already situated, dressed in medals of valor and pressed suits. It must make for an impressive image because the drones fly lower and there are the rapid snaps of photographs being taken, the slew of them broadcasted on the large holoscreens facings the crowds. The cheers become thunderous as Allura takes the podium, looking for all she is a queen about to address her subjects.

The cosmos take a deep breath, waiting for her to speak.

“My father once told me that belief was the cornerstone of life. That to believe in something greater meant to push yourself higher to reach it. Each and every one of us has this power. To strive forward and achieve what we believe, what we dream— it is only a matter of will.” The altean’s kaleidoscope eyes sweeps over the masses, aiming to making a connection to all those who look back. “Today, we all have the same belief. To end this war. To see what lies beyond this strife and sorrow, and to form anew from its ashes.”

Keith looks to the faces in the crowd, watches them open up, sunlit and hopeful, blooming under the words of a princess with no crown. It’s awe-inspiring.

“Do not fear to take that step towards change, for it is within your grasp. The power we hold together is great and it will lead us to a new era. An aeon of peace.”

There’s an old truth to the words, the sound of them ringing across centuries and centuries of history Keith hasn't lived through and can only catch a glimpse of through the dusty windows of crumbling libraries. Empires and kingdoms alike collapse and fall to those words, reborn anew by the same mercy.

“We will succeed,” Allura continues, voice powerful and full of conviction. “This war has been going on for a millennium and, for some, it is all you have known. But I’m here to say that it’s not always going to be like this. I have known peace and I promise that it can be like that again. It’s worth the pain. It’s worth standing back up and fighting. And that’s what we are going to do now. Fight for our lives and those who we return to, so that everyone may know peace as I did. We will fight, we will win and we will return— for the good of the universe.”

A roar of approval explodes at her words, spirited and deafening. It propels them forward, stepping onto the docking platform and holding their heads high in a deep-rooted hope for triumph.

Minutes later, the IGF-Atlas is launched and with it, the universe’s last hope.

* * *

It takes time but, one by one, the Galra Empire’s hold on the universe slackens. Planets, shackled by the oppression of a dictator, are freed, allowed to step back into the light. Their inhabitants, tear-eyed and bruised, thank them with what little they have to give; words of gratitude and medals of honor, immortalized in lore and statue. A depiction of heroes, armor sullied in the effort of liberation and dented in the face of suns now free to shine, digging into the soft flesh of those salvaged from the wreckage and those too late to save.

It’s tiring work, one that leaves bones aching and minds hollow. Still, they don’t quit. Fight the galra, aid the people and take to the sky. On to the next, rinse and repeat.

When they aren’t liberating planets, they spend their time walking the halls of the Atlas, going through the motions in such a way that it’s reminiscent to life aboard the castleship before its destruction. Time goes in cycles between operations, alternating from urgent to lethargic at a moment’s notice. It’s the high strung tension of a warship charging an ion cannon, orders made and orders followed, abated only by the notification of _threat neutralized_ and the sighs of relief that follow. It’s the slow drawl of the days in-between, following the routine of social interactions dictated by close proximity; lounging in the common rooms, doodling on the backside of old reports and making calls back to Earth, a bizarre show of normalcy.

His world grows. Strangers become acquaintances and acquaintances become friends, becoming more commonplace as time passes and battles are won.

He learns the names of the rest of the MFE pilots and gets a scope of their personalities, finds that they aren’t so bad as he initially thought. Ryan never goes anywhere without his camera and always has an opinion on the pick for movie nights. Nadia is an adrenaline junkie and likes to show off that she can do a black flip from a standstill position. Ina can beatbox and might actually be one of the funniest people Keith has ever met. Even James seems to have become less hostile in the past years, keeping the hard put harmony whenever they cross paths; not once does he offer an apology for the trouble he caused Keith when they were young but, nonetheless, it seems that they’ve come to some sort of silent agreement.

Another change is the near constant presence of Lance’s oldest sister, Veronica. A central component of command among the Atlas, the woman is almost as high a rank as Shiro and walks through the halls with a certain air around her that reflects it. She’s small, shorter when standing next to the lean form of her brother, brisk in her speech and utterly composed in everything else. More often than not, he sees her giving orders or analyzing battle plans, eyes zeroing in on anything and everything, ready to dissect. Only when in the company of her brother does the professional front come down entirely, smoothing over strict frowns and furrowed eyes until a semblance of a person shines through.

(Like now, after yet another meeting with the crew on operation progress and Keith takes a second to wait for Shiro, leaning against the wall and only half listening as his friend finishes discussing the particulars on a medical unit planetside. Opposite to him are the two siblings, talking; as he watches the younger says something, hands flailing dramatically, and the reaction is near immediate. Veronica shoves her brother and does this thing, where her cheeks rise and her eyes crinkle in an open-mouthed smile— and ah, now Keith knows where Lance gets it from.)

It’s because their group is ever growing that, when there’s no meetings scheduled and no planet in need of saving, they’ll come together and chill. Sometimes they’ll have dinner and do a game night, dividing into teams and arguing passionately over whether it’s fair for the mice to play charades when Allura can practically read their thoughts. Other times they have movie nights, crowded around the giant holoscreen in the captain’s quarters, munching on popcorn and cocooned in blankets, only to wake up the next morning with mussed up hair and drool drying on their chins.

It’s a far cry from what Keith thought his life would be like, cruising through deep space and fighting in a thousand year old war alongside the very people who threw him into it. To have found something out of nothing.

If only thirteen year old Keith could see him now. Maybe then he’d be a little more patient knowing that something good came from all the pain.

* * *

Birthed from the planet’s core, all he knows is fire. Every thought, incinerated, leaving only ash and a hollow husk. Curled in on himself, quivering in the aftershocks of violence, he hopes for salvation. A means to end the agony, forever extinguished.

A miracle, then. Nebulous hands, burning upon exposure, reaching for him just as a voice says, _I’m still here_.

It is a promise made.

 _Always gonna be here_.

It is a promise kept.

* * *

They don’t catch a trace of Haggar until four months into their mission.

By then they are well-versed in policing the vast expanse of space. Violence may still slink around the corners, but it no longer rules the universe, collapsing under the force of the will of their allies. The planets they encounter no longer tremble under the fury of the galra sigil, but fight back, answering the call that echoes across light years. Where Voltron is a beacon of hope, the Atlas is a promise of a future; for Voltron may fight and bleed to give the people their freedom, it is the Atlas and all its assets bestowed that allows them the power to wield it.

Even with all its power and history, Voltron is not needed like it used to be. The paladins themselves barely have much to do as it is, going into battles that are over before they even begin. It seems that the universe doesn’t need much defending anymore.

Which leads to no argument when they receive intel about the altean witch’s whereabouts in the outskirts of the sector they’re in and decide to pursue.

Allura, in particular, is eager to get things rolling. The princess throws herself into the preparation, listening to reports and triangulating coordinates that might give more incite to what’s to come. Night after night she stays up, looking through the star maps and murmuring in an ancient language that only a handful of people still possess the knowledge to understand; no matter how much Keith and the rest of the team prods, she refuses to let up, shaking her head when they mention rest and insisting that some things are just more important.

Results are garnered when, on the day before they’re set to mobilize, the altean wakes from her comatose state.

From the moment her eyes snap open, bedlam ensues. An alarm goes off in the middle of breakfast and people go running— medical hands, scientists, lieutenants, paladins and everyone in between. Everyone wants to know the answer to the biggest question of this age: who is this mysterious altean and why was she found at the heart of a Sincline Mech. Allura is the first to arrive, Romelle the second, running ahead of Keith and pushing past the nurses on hand and kneeling next to the shaking form splayed over pristine bed sheets.

It takes a few minutes but eventually emerald eyes focus, zipping from corner to corner until they stick onto the two at her bedside, taking in their pointed ears and colorful marks and Coran standing just behind. The whole room holds their breath as she takes a moment to process, silent in the wake of the hand she raises, trembling, to graze across Allura’s cheek. A moment passes, extending the length of forever and then—

“Ah!” Allura cries out.

—like a whip cracking, fingers are gripping the princess’s chin and pulling it closer. Nails dig into flesh, carving angry, red lines down once flawless skin.

“Traitors,” the girl hisses.

More than one person lurches forward to intervene, but Allura rips herself away before anything else could be done. Her brows furrow, confusion and anger twisting her lips as she glares at the hand that marked her.

“We are not traitors,” Romelle says, leaning forward despite what had just transpired and catching the eye of the altean. “It’s me, Romelle. Don’t you recognize me, Luka? It’s been a long time, but you used to play with my brother when we were younger. Brandor, remember?”

“A traitor with a name is still a traitor nonetheless. Do not think forgiveness will be given just because you once walked among us.”

“But we are not traitors,” Allura insists. “We have done nothing to deserve such a title. It is you who were found in Sincline Mech, trying to destroy Earth, unprovoked.”

The altean— Luka, curls her lip in distaste. “Earth harbors traitors to our kind. It is offense enough.”

“We are not here to cause more strife, but to stop a war. You see, I am—”

“I know who you are. You are Allura of Old Altea, the princess who slept on while we suffered.” She sneers in the face of their shock, twisting on the bed until she’s all but spitting in the face of a once-ruler. “Empress Honerva has told us all about you. She warned us about your lies. Warned us about your delusions of peace, how you defile what you preach. How it was you who cut Lotor down when he trusted you most, when all he sought for was to save us. Save us when you couldn’t— when you wouldn’t.”

Allura stumbles back as if struck. It’s a low blow and they all know it; know that Allura may say the past is the past when it comes to the galran prince, but that this is a wound hastily stitched. A wound now split wide open. “You do not know the whole story. Lotor was using our kind, using me. He was not the man we thought he was. He did not even tell me of your existence. If I had known then—”

“You would have done nothing! Nothing!” Luka jerks forward, as if to attack, and two men on medical standby step forward to restrain her. She fights them, glaring at the two alteans before her with such venom that it is a miracle they do not fall to the floor. “You would have left us to die, just as you did with the rest of our people. Just as you did with Lotor. You think yourself a Life Giver, but you hold no such power, and when the fates come crashing down, it is you who will find yourself cut down. Cut down by the very blade you wield.”

Keith sees the words cut deep, sees his friend flinch.

Then the altean does try to attack, breaking free of the humans that restrain her and swinging a fist that promises retribution. It’s only the quick reaction of Coran, growing two feet in the span of seconds, that catches it before it can land; Allura blinks in delayed astonishment, eyes glazed over as they watch the girl get tackled back onto the bed, thrashing like a wild animal. Watches as a nurse raises a syringe filled with transparent liquid to her neck, needle piercing pale skin, and her eyes roll back, body slumping in an unconscious heap. Watches as Romelle scurries forward, hands fluttering nervously and unsure what to do, desperate to help— can only stare and watch as the body is carried away to some undisclosed location as people rush about, talking about heart rates and induced comas, followed by the bark of orders for others to get back to their scheduled duties.

Only when the room has cleared and none of the alteans have moved, does Keith venture closer. “Allura,” he says as soft as he can muster, eyeing the princess and the white-knuckled clutch of her fists. “You okay?”

His voice must break through whatever plane she drifts in, because she deliberately untenses, looking back at him. “Hm? Yes, I’m— it’s fine. I just hadn’t realized… that they harbored such hostility for me.”

She blinks rapidly, attempting to banish the tears they all see collecting at the corner of her eyes.

Granite cracks as Coran returns back to the living world. He turns back to the princess, shrinking to his original size, a dangerous look flashing in his eyes. It’s times like this that Keith has to remind himself that this man, eccentric and over the top as he is, has seen more of this universe than any one of them. That he has advised kings and queens, long gone, a relic of a time past this system and the next. That there are empires younger than the years etched into his face.

“It is not your fault, princess,” the older man assures, kneeling down so that they are eye level. His gloved hand takes hers, guiding it slowly to her face, hovering over the marks that linger. “They do not know any better. Let the Life Givers guide us, we will save them and teach them what it truly means to be altean.”

The words bring forth a small smile. Her fingertips glow a faint pink, sealing over the scratches and leaving not even a scar. “You’re right, Coran. This just makes it more imperative that we win this war and defeat Honerva, to heal what she has wrought. For our people.”

Romelle joins them, looking upset but trying hard to be otherwise. “We’ll just have to show them the truth.”

Lance puts a hand on his hip. “Yeah, but first we have to find them. We know where Honerva was four quintants ago, but that’s worth nothing if we don’t know which way she was headed. No clues on what she’s doing either. And I don’t think our new friend is going to be telling us anytime soon.”

“Oh.” Something bright returns to Allura’s eyes. “Maybe she won’t have to.”

“Princess?” Shiro questions.

But she’s already standing, pushing past them and towards the doors the unconscious altean had been carried through, shoulders set to a determined line and earrings glinting in the light as she disappears. Coran and Romelle are quick to follow her, leaving behind the five humans in a state of bewilderment and slow uptake. Yet, before they can even think to move, the door locks with a final _click_ , making the decision for them and leaving them with nothing to do but wait.

Wait until, nearly half an hour later, Allura comes out.

They bumble in the suddenness of it, chins dipping out of their upturned palms and cracking against the table, straightening right out of their seat. Boredom replaced with attentiveness at the blink of an eye. In the seconds it takes for the door to close shut behind her, Keith catches a glimpse of Coran, Romelle and nurses hunched over the form of Luka, head lolling to the side and eyes still glowing in the aftereffects of Allura’s power. It reminds him of their little experiment concerning his flashes and he idly wonders the extent of the altean princess’s capability, whether its as infinite as space itself.

“It’s worse than we thought,” Allura tells them, voice grave. “Honerva means to do more than conquer this universe. She means to destroy it.”

“You can’t be serious.” Hunk says, hands gripping onto Lance’s shirt. “Oh my gosh, you’re serious. Can she even do that?”

Shiro’s eyes narrow. “Better yet. How does she plan to do that?”

“Luka did not know the specifics behind it, just the end result. It seems as if they’ve been led to believe that if they help Honerva succeed then they will be transported to another reality, one where Altea does not fall and they are reunited with their loved ones. But, in truth, it will only lead to oblivion of all universes that exist in this plane and the next.”

“We have to stop her.”

“Agreed.” Allura doesn’t look at anyone, instead keeps her eyes unwaveringly forward. “It’s time to make our move,” she says, voice hard. “We’re taking the fight to Honerva.”

* * *

“I don’t know about this guys…”

Keith breathes deeply through his nose, forcing his eye to stop twitching as the yellow paladin says the very phrase he’s been repeating for the last three hours since leaving their solar system via wormhole. The comms are open for convenience’s sake, protocol dictating that their distance from the Atlas be monitored through the simplest means and updates be given every hour on the hour.

“We’ve been through this, Hunk. We’re sticking with the plan.”

“Yeah, I know… but it’s not much of a plan, is it? Just, like, doesn’t it feel a bit too risky to be venturing inside her flying temple-thingy without our lions. Like, am I the only one who thinks that’s crazy? I can’t be the only one who thinks that’s crazy.”

Allura’s screen pops up on his monitor. “No one’s arguing over the precariousness of the plan, but the lions simply can’t fit inside the castle of Oriande and the situation calls for immediate action. And think it of this way, if our lions aren’t able to get it, then neither can her Sincline ships. It’ll be an even playing field— maybe even in our favor because she doesn’t know we’re coming.”

Their destination comes into view just as Pidge pipes up with some nonsensical statistics; Maserith, fourth planet closest to this system’s gas giant. Swathed with purples and yellows, a single, translucent ring circles it. Two moons orbit close by, one with a crack so large it runs the length of the object’s circumference; Keith stares at it when they pass it by, watching as a chuck of mass breaks off and disintegrates. No fighter ships appear when they breach the atmosphere, everything remaining quiet as they descend, the lions’ systems picking up no unusual activity. Clouds fade into mist and landmasses become sharper, the lush of forests and mountain ranges there to greet them, bigger and more violaceous than that of Earth.

Roosting at the base of the nearest mountain to their northwestern side, is Honerva’s ship.

Allura breathes out loudly, sounding reverent in that ageless way of hers. Oriande, the lathe of heaven, must shimmer and shine like the Altea of the princess’s memories, bursting with life cut too short. A whisper of what was and what would have been.  

Keith eyes it suspiciously. “Pidge, initiate stealth mode.”

“On it.”

They complete their descent without a hitch, maneuvering their lions behind a graded slope and leaving them behind with force fields activated. Their speeders are fast, zipping under the cover of the forest’s edge until they reach the temple-ship’s barrier. Crystals of lilac levitate in pairs around the perimeter, pulsing every few seconds in an obvious show of altean alchemy.

It takes Allura a minute to defuse them, quintessence draining from the gems as they fall to the ground. Then it is only a matter of sneaking through one of the back entryways, following the princess as she guides them past ancient inscriptions carved into crumbling marble and the pink vines that crawl along their age-old spines. Lanterns of blue and purple blink into life as they pass, illuminating their drawn weapons and the winding path of the labyrinth they’ve stepped in. Careful of being caught by bullheaded scouts that may or may not lurk around corners they stick close to the walls, steps careful and ears open.

Eventually, they come to a crossroads and the target on Pidge’s scanner flickers and splits. “There’s a sudden surge of energy botching up my system. It’s coming from three separate chambers in the temple.” A few taps at the screen at her wrist. “I can pinpoint their locations, but not what’s actually happening inside.”

Allura looks down the tunnel they’re facing. “Honerva must have started whatever she means to do. We must hurry. This planet won’t survive this much concentrated quintessence, let alone the universe.”

“We’ll have to split up,” Keith tells them, split second decision considered and made. “We can’t be sure which chamber Honerva is in, so we’ll have to check them all. Allura, you keep going down this tunnel. Hunk and Pidge, you go to the right. Lance, you’re with me.”

The boy doesn't bat an eyelash, merely nods and steps closer to his side. Their youngest member mutters something about informing the Atlas, but doesn’t questions the order. Hunk, however, still doesn’t seem entirely convinced. “I still don’t think…”

“Be sure to comm if you find her.” Allura says over he shoulder, already disappearing down her designated path.

The finger the yellow paladin was holding up falls and he blows out a loud breath through his nose, frowning at the obvious dismissal. “Does no one remember last time you guys didn’t listen to me? Cause I do. Rolo and Nyma? Nearly stole the Blue Lion? Ring any bells, anyone?”

“How can we forget when you constantly bring it up,” Lance grumbles.

Knowing the truth to the statement and the way his friend had yet to let them all live down the misjudgement of character in their first few months as paladins, Keith elects not to comment on how it had worked in their favor in the end, giving them two new allies and intel on rebel activity. Instead, he takes the time clap the burly boy on the shoulder, tilting his head in order accommodate the height difference between the two. “Hey, relax, it’ll work out. This isn’t like last time. We’re different people than we were back then, and we’re ready for whatever Honerva throws at us. This is just something we have to do. Trust me.”

Hunk worries his lip. “Yeah, okay.”

Then he’s following Pidge with only one or two looks back, footsteps growing faint until they disappear altogether.

Keith doesn’t waste any time, turning to Lance and finding him already looking back; blue eyes giving him a quick once over, catching momentarily on his sword before snapping to his face in the span of a second, serious and cool through his visor. A steady presence, waiting to follow his lead and watch his back.

Together, they make their way down the ominous hall, shadowed in the unknown and the uncontrolled. Years of experience guide them, keeping their heart rates low and their minds alert, muscle memory bowing their backs and clenching their stomachs, at the ready for even the slightest inclination of trouble. They are soft flesh and wired nerves, molded by battles fought and allies lost, soldiers of the universe’s making, marching to right a wrong and fix what is broken.

Sound travels low, prowling down the corridor as they get closer and closer towards the temple’s center. In the distance, they can hear the walls coming to life; the _fwoosh_ of a door being opened, the padding of footsteps and the muffled static of voices. They exchange a look and Lance sharply turns the next corner, blaster raised. He fires once, twice, three times. Then two bodies are slumping against the wall and a security drone is broken on the floor. Past hangars and crypts, filled with altean artifacts and technology, they go. Sidestepping altean guards when they can and knocking them out cold when they can’t. Systematic, they comb through the maze until, finally, they come to its end.

The slim path expands into a bigger pocket of space, lined with colossal thrones and god-like statues sitting upon their seats. The ceiling is slanted, light filtering through painted panes and casting dramatic landscapes across impassive faces. A glass prism sits idyllically at the room’s center, surrounded by a garden of juniberries. In front of them a ledge that overlooks the large room, draped with banners bearing a symbol they’ve seen on the castleship’s ballroom. Altea’s royal insignia.

“Pretty,” Lance comments. “A little over the top, but… pretty.”

Keith peers over the edge, pulling back almost immediately when he spots movement. Another, more cautious look has him pinpointing eight guards.

A quick glance sees Lance, eyes steely under brows pinched in utter focus.

Without hesitation, he jumps.

His knees bend as he falls, body instinctively knowing that a straight impact at this height and speed will surely kill him. But there is no scratch of fear, only confidence when he activates his jetpack seconds before it becomes dangerous. A jostle as gravity meets resistance and the anchor that had so urgently pulled at him is gone. No longer falling, but flying.

The guards don’t see him coming, jerking to surprised attention when he lands in their midst and sweeps his leg in a low kick. They’re sent sprawling, weapons clattering to the floor, but Keith doesn’t let them gather their wits, launching himself at the closest one. Another swift kick and an elbow to the face downs them both, and he throws the dead weight of one at the remaining guards who rush from the other side of the room. These altean guards have never seen war, not like Keith has, and, as such, they stumble. A misstep, a tick of hesitation at the look he levels their way, small but enough to give him an advantage as he spins around them and slashes at the bend of their exposed wrists. Disarmed, they are easy pickings, falling unconscious with a swift round of punches.

Lance jumps down from the railing, sparing not a look at the bodies he had sniped while Keith’s back had been turned. “You good?”

He nods and readjusts his grip on his bayard, hands sweaty underneath the gloves. “Yeah.”

“Good. Cause the last guy I sniped had a keycard. I think it opens to the inner chamber over there.” He nods to the door at the other end of the room, altean runes scrawled across its arch. “This is the only corridor with any guards stationed at it. Honerva may be a delusional space witch looking to destroy all of reality, but I’m betting paranoia is running through her like crazy— crazy enough to put all her security unit in the one place she needs it.”

Keith catches his meaning. “Whatever’s through there is important.”

“Yeaup, and I’m thinking—”

But Keith never hears the rest, because suddenly the heavens rip apart. There’s a screech, beast-like, and they turn, limbs heavy with lead and time they don’t have, to see a shadow rise from the dark. The yellow eyes of a witch glow just as foreign words are uttered, runes of magic dripping into the air and crystalizing, real and powerful.

Keith sees the barrel of Lance’s blaster raise just as the edge of his sword does the same, the familiar hum of the weapon’s charge growing louder through the slow pace of time. Blue energy builds at its tip— ready, aim and fire. He follows the shot, knees bending and body lurching forward in a deadly arc. The sound of his own heart doubles as he rushes forward and toward the figure, feet steady and sure even as they leave solid ground.

Dual scream rips out of their lungs, harmonizing into one and reaching its zenith as the floor beneath them grows dark, crumbling into nothingness. Desperate, two boys look to each other, eyes wide and hands reaching. One step and—

 _To the end of the universe_ , Lance says in the light of a dying sun, _and back_.

—they fall.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's finally time— time to fix what s8 fucked up. I'm pulling all the stops, guys. Sword fights and tearful heart-to-hearts. You name it, I've got it.
> 
> Are you ready? No? Me neither. Alright, let's do this!

The astral plane is a cosmic burn against his skin. Fragile and composed, it breathes a cloud of thought and intent, shining from point to celestial point. Pulsating like something living, it beckons.

In time with the universe, he wakes. A breath, stolen from his concaved chest, shudders at the thrill of slipping past a cage of muscle and bone. Stagnant freedom, watched from eyes already opened and barely aware. A trickle of feeling, counting down the notches of his spine with aching precision until he remembers that the body is his to control.

Then, without prompting, he moves. His hand rises, pressing flat to the mirror of his own existence, trying to find himself. Time cracks and splits and he sees beyond what is linear. Cause and effect, a wave upon space itself, asking _who are you?_ Years regress and years progress, eternal, and he, only a footnote in this bigger story, is unsure of which direction to go. For there are a million paths and a million more endings, a finite choice within infinite possibilities.  

At the end of the universe, he stands, wondering. Wondering of what he left behind and if maybe — just maybe, he could go back.

But something stops him from turning. A force, omniscient, slipping past his guard and suspending him upon a cross weaved from thorns. It pushes and a third eye opens, tattooed with the glowing marks of a dead culture, waiting to claim what doesn’t belong. Powerless to the touch that drags over him, he cries out; from navel to heart, it cuts, tearing him wide open and letting the fears crawl out. From his body, a chasm forms, and it slithers in, sinking claws into his consciousness with a raspy croon.

 _Submit_ , it demands. _Submit to me._

A silent cry strikes the barrier of thought as the force presses upon him, a shattering presence. Broken glass punctures, sinking into his flesh; it liquifies and percolates, filling his veins until they burst. All his scars bleed golden, oozing in kindle for the fire that consumes him, burning until he tastes his own ashes. Lightning travels up his legs, straightening his spine with pure electricity that revives the burnt crisp of flesh and mind he has become. His head snaps back, eyes wide and sightless in the feeling, and he lets loose a noise somewhere between a whine and a yell.

He is fire and magma splattered across a dark canvas, specks of gold and white flaring like a string of city lights around his neck. A firestorm, wild and explosive. Embers pop and sizzle, arching high in the swing of a blade, landing with the intent to consume. Distorted and warped, the Red Lion stares from underneath his skin, hot thunder for blood and suns for pupils.

Anger, once dormant in his chest, wakes.

His reality cracks like radio static, getting louder and louder until it consumes. A canon, booming, sounds off at the end of a funeral march, leaving only the sizzling ruins of self, corrupted by dark magic and an unforgivable science. He is less than what he was, hollow and despondent and mindless, following the strings that bind him. Transparent and tight, the strings go taut. He flexes.

A sword held in his grasp sings, deadly and craving action.

Something cold touches him and he hisses in surprise. Forced to pull back or suffer frostbite, he stares down the silhouette that shines bright in his split vision, outlined hand still hovering between them. The sight has the strings pulling tighter.

 _Kill_ , the voice inside his head says and he feels the desire burn in his chest. Feels it stain his hands a bloody red with intent, wrapped around the throat of mercy and squeezing until it is no more. The violent thought drives away his sense, making him something wild; a wolf, foaming at the mouth, with slits for eyes and fangs bared. A monster, through and through.

The silhouette stumbles away, dodging the swing of his sword with a cry of distress.

But he doesn’t stop— can’t stop, prowling forward and leaving scorched earth in his wake. Another swing, arc wider and accompanied by his own yell, barely missing its mark when his opponent ducks to the left. Step, swipe and stab. It is the mantra of his existence, the only thing worth knowing, fury condensed along the edge of his sword and the blood rushing through his veins. Carnage in the making.

 _Schwing_.

The blade in his hand is parried.

A sword, accented red, glinting in the cosmic light. It is a threat previously unseen, held in the grip of someone who knows how to use it. Longer than his own blade, its tip skims the ground as its wielder straightens into a fighting stance. A challenge.

Sparks erupt when they clash, metallic tongues hissing, only to quiet again when they separate; choreographed by the notes of war, they dance to its solemn tune. Every step is calculated, careful and precise. One wrong move and the curtain will fall, hefty in the sound of thunderous applause, draped ostentatiously over shut coffins. Falling into each other and in range, they pivot and deflect, graceful only as dancers are, light-footed and sure.

Their swords bisect, sliding until cross-guards meet.

This close he can see his own reflection in the other’s eyes— dark hair curling around a snarling face, a shadow of self shrinking within a dilating pupil. The sight strums at the strings that guide him, letting out a confusing _twang_ , reminiscent of a time before. It’s not a good feeling, churning uncomfortably at the bottom of his stomach; he wants it gone.

A twist of his wrist and it has the other’s sword flying.

He kicks out, watching as his opponent’s body falls and rolls across the ground with the force of it. And that should be the last of it, submission given to the victor, but it’s not. For armored arms go to lift themselves up, head rising so clear eyes can look up at him through sweaty bangs, jaw clenched with a stubbornness that has the fire inside him flaring up.

Angry, he stalks forward and stabs the point of his sword into the jut between breastplate and shoulder pad. It draws out a scream of pain, gutted and raw, and he pushes it deeper. Deeper until blood trickles over shining armor and onto the ground, causing red to ripple across its once pristine surface. Deeper still when those eyes look to his, clouded with pain, unbudging as he looms and goes for a chokehold.

Fingers scramble for purchase, weakening as the moments drag on and he exerts more pressure, twitching in time to the wheeze of air stolen from lungs.

A leg wraps around him and they roll over, a tangle of limbs. The ground is hard against their backs as they fight for the upper hand, his sword and helmet discarded somewhere along the way, leaving him with nothing but the dirt underneath his nails and the taste of rust in his mouth. They are evenly matched like this, stripped of their names and drenched in their own desperation. It’s a struggle that’s been a long time coming, though he does not know how he knows that, but it sits heavy at the base of his chest.

Clear gems dislodged from the ground follow them in their struggle, cutting into skin left unprotected. One must get underneath them and dig into the other’s wounded shoulder because he shudders violently, losing his grip and surrendering the leverage he held. Victory taken and victory given.

 _Kill_ , the voice in his head repeats when he’s got the other pinned down, breathing hard and once again looking at his own image splattered across the canvas of a pupil. His blade is back in his hand, poised at the ready. _Kill him._

His world flickers as gloved fingers brush against his ear, making him recoil instinctively, thinking it another attack. Still, it persists, moving until it curls at the back of his neck. Gentler than any of its predecessors, it vibrates with the heavy pound of his heartbeat, taming the monster into a lull of compliance. Small pricks of pressure guide his head down, down, down, until foreheads meet. Then, softly, words he cannot hear are whispered into the sliver of space between them just as a muzzle of a gun is pressed into his stomach.

Seams splitting, he falls apart, the world folding in on itself. It pulls, bends—

_To the end of the universe and back._

—and breaks.

Transparent daggers rake against the sheet of ultramarine that makes up this plane, ripping claws of red across a celestial sky. It coerces the fear in his chest to slip out, dripping toxic black through the gap of his ribs. Feeling returns in the form of bruises spanning the entirety of his body and more than one gash peeking out from behind cut cloth and discarded armor. Blood, which had been rushing through his veins with the kick of adrenaline only moments ago, is weeping from wounds sustained, sluggish and steady.

Underneath him, a body shivers, going limp with exhaustion.

It comes to him then, what he’s done— what he nearly did— and a different kind of pain develops. The shock has him dropping his bayard, watching the heat of his fingerprints fade from the hilt as it clatters to the ground, soundless. Something loosens inside him and, suddenly, everything is too much. The air is too thick, time too slow, his suit too tight and the universe too vast; he is a speck, insignificant and powerless, and it is just _too much_.

He flings himself back, away from the corpse that almost was and the murderer he almost became, and starts shaking his head. It doesn’t help and he is left there, fists clenched and mind battered, suffocating in silence. For there is something stuck in his chest, a tumbleweed whose thorns pierce and shred and destroy. Like the brittle wood of a dead tree, he snaps and breaks under the pressure, knees failing and leaving him a heap of kindle on the floor. He takes a labored breath and it attempts to spark a dead fire.

“Keith.”

But there is nothing left to burn. Only smoke and ash.

“Keith, look at me.” A touch to the back of his hand and he flinches. “Keith, _please_.”

A shudder and charred woods crumbles. He follows the line of ash as it scatters in the wind, dark gaze meeting that of blue.

Lance is nearly transparent, a mirror of water that glistens. Shooting stars fly through his veins, pulsing with every heartbeat; they die just as quickly as they are born, dreaming of adventure even as they fall. A look down and he can see beads of constellations knit around his ankles, twinkling like chimes.

A smile, honest and hesitant. “Hey, buddy.”

He makes to move away.

“Wait, no. Don’t do— come back.” Weak willed and feeling numb, Keith lets himself be pulled in. His body falls into the curve of the other boy’s arms; he doesn’t phase through like he imagines he would, but stays firm, properly cradled. His temple is pressed against the cool material of a breastplate and his hand trails down to fall, limp, in his lap. “You’re okay. It’s over now and you’re okay.”

Listeless, he speaks, “I… I almost…”

“Hey, no, no, no. That’s not— you stopped, okay?” Lance shifts awkwardly, shoulder slumped at an odd angle, and then there’s an arm wrapped around him and a hand taking his, soothing the burning touch of corruption. Planet rings circle thin wrists like bangles, matter vibrating when they divided and merged back into one another lazily. “I’m fine, see? Fine and still breathing, all because of you.”

“I didn’t mean to…”

Their faces are close enough that Keith can see the exact moment Lance cracks; the slight tremble of a lower lip, translating in the wobble of his next words. “I know you didn’t. I know you would never— not now, not after everything. We’re a team, remember? And I’m still here— always gonna be here.”

The words are from a long, lost dream and Keith jolts at the memory of them. It causes him to lift his head and stare up at the boy who holds him, to take in everything all at once: the gash that cuts through his left eyebrow, the pinpricks of tears at the corner of his eyes, the way his lips part when he breathes. It is a mural of a future passing him by, honest like the flashes promised.

“Oh,” he breathes out in understanding. Relief rushes through him, almost immediately followed by frustration. “Allura was right. I should’ve just let them come.”

The abrupt change in mood startles Lance, tears chased away before they can properly settle. “What?”

“Nothing. I…” To think, that he would have foreseen all this if he had just taken the time to properly dissect his flashes rather than throw them aside out of misguided cynicism. So focused on the future he didn’t believe he deserved, he had forgotten about the present that might become it. “I’m just so dumb. Dumb to think I could…” He sits up and runs a hand through his hair, putting it into disarray. “God, it’s all a mess and I have no idea what I’m doing.”

“Not everyone has the answers.”

“Well, I’m—”

“Yeah, you’re not everyone. I know. I’m sure everyone and their mom knows who you are. Keith Kogane. Flying protégée, golden boy of the Garrison and pilot of the Black Lion.” Words go unspoken, an echo of a past they share; two boys, one with a head in the clouds and another with his heart on his sleeve. They lie dormant between the lines, waiting to be heard. “But just because you’ve got all that under your belt doesn’t mean you’re immune to life, and sometimes life is confusing. Sometimes you don’t know what to do or where you fit. It happens, okay? All this just makes you…” Lance pauses. “Makes you human.”

Something new and unfamiliar coils in his chest.

“And that’s fine. You’re allowed to not know,” Lance continues, taking a deep breath. His eyes are clear now, staring intently at Keith. “It sucks— trust me, I know, but life’s like that sometimes. We just gotta push through and hope we find what we’re looking for.”

Keith blinks. “That was— wow, um, pretty wise.”

Lance looks away and down, readjusting the bend of his knees. “Yeah, well, I had a lot of time to think about this. Life’s kinda slow when you’re stuck in space.”

“Well, thanks… It’s nice to hear, that I’m not alone in all this.”

“No problem, man.”

He frowns at the response. It’s hard to place, but the words, though casual in delivery, seem almost dismissive in nature. As if what Keith said is merely obligation and not fact. “Seriously,” he says, willing him to understand. “I wouldn’t know what I’d do without you. I’d probably be rotting in some alien jail cell halfway across the galaxy if it wasn’t for you.”

“I’m sure you would’ve gotten yourself out eventually.”

“Maybe, but I wouldn’t need to with you there. I wouldn’t even be in that situation in the first place. You keep me in check when I get out of hand. I have never been… the most logical of people, especially when I get stuck in my head, but you always bring me back to what’s important. So, thank you.”

“You don’t have to thank me for that. That’s just what friends do.” Lance smiles. “And we’re friends.”

Keith smiles back. “Yeah, we are.”

Their surroundings have finally settled into something more tranquil, receding from the violent reds and disturbed yellows into a more manageable spectrum. It soothes the nerves that had been previously fried, realigning synapses and extending sheaths, making every sensation new and goosebump inducing. He tilts his head back, watching the distant skyline sink under the surface of this plane. Up above, two adjacent stars stare back.

His hands fall to his sides and curl into the seam of his undersuit, feeling the patterns of the stockinette. Slowly, he breathes out.

Next to him, Lance does the same and says, “This place is crazy, right?”

Keith turns just in time to see his fellow paladin wiggle his fingers in front of his face, eternally fascinated at the way the gesture slows down and leaves a stop-motion shadow trailing after it. Further intrigued, he reaches out to touch Keith; the boy holds himself stone still, lips parting in a sun flare of surprise. Sparks erupt from the place where the pads of his fingers brushed along the crest of a cheek, a blotch of violet.

“Yeah, it’s… it’s something else. Different than when we project from the lions.” Keith inhales sharply. “I wonder what brought us here.”

“Well, if I had to guess, I’d guess _that_.”

Keith angles himself to where he points, jerking in surprising when he spots a ball of… _something_ floating in the air a few feet away from them. It’s pitch black, fuzzy at the edges, with tendrils of violet lightning striking the air around it every few seconds. It makes no noise, silent as it bobs between this universe and the next in everlasting limbo, but the way it quivers makes Keith think it’s holding in a scream.

“What is it?”

“I don’t know.” Lance shifts close enough that their shoulders brush when he shrugs. “It just— came out of you. One minute you were all crazy and attacking me, and the next, this thing popped right out of your chest and you were fine. I’m kinda afraid to touch it. Like, what if it infects me or whatever? I’d rather not fight you again. That was a bit too intense for my tastes.”

Only remembering certain snippets of feelings, albeit in gruesome detail, Keith nods.

Lance continues, talking through his thoughts. “Maybe this has something to do with the colony and why they’re apples and bananas for Honerva. It could be that they’re brainwashed, like you were. Though if that’s the case, then we should bring it back to the Atlas as a sample. Allura would want to analyze it, to see if it could be reversed.” The boy hums, looking behind and at the great expanse of nothing around them, tapping his fingers against his knee. “We’d have to get out of this place first. Usually, the lions would just bring us back, but I don’t think this place is where we usually go when we connect in Voltron. Maybe it’s a copy that Haggar made.”

“Maybe,” Keith agrees, unconsciously picking at his lip as he thinks it over. “But it won’t be safe on the Atlas, not with it traveling across the universe. Earth won’t be good either, not after the war. Kolivan might have a place for it— an old base possibly, or even one of Lotor’s abandoned labs. I can take it with me when I go.”

A pause, long and stagnant. Then—

“What.” Lance’s voice is flat.

Keith looks up, confused. “What?”

“You’re… leaving?”

“I mean, yeah. Not now, but someday. Soon, maybe— I don’t know.” It’s been the topic of a few late night talks with his mother, vague as most things dealing with the future are, gaining shape as more time passes. Faster even, when the flashes had intensified and he hadn’t wanted to be taunted by them any longer. “When this war is finally over, someone is going to have to help put the universe back together. And with no leader, the galra are going to need someone to take charge and get them on the right track. A new planet and a new ruling system.”

“And what? That’s gonna be you?”

“No, of course not. I’m just gonna help them get back on their feet. They have to change if they want to be part of Coalition and, well, I was talking with Acxa and—”

“Acxa? You’re gonna run off with Acxa? The girl who tried to kill you— all of us, on more than one occasion? A girl you and Hunk found in some space worm’s stomach? Your ditching us for her? You don’t even know her!”

“I know her enough,” he bites back. “And she’s helped me— us, out. She’s changed. And I’m not ditching you guys for her, okay? I just think that I’ll be more useful out there. It’s not like you guys are gonna need me on Earth once everything is finished. There’s nothing left for me there.”

“Useful? Nothing left? What are you even talking about?”

Not wanting to continue the conversation, Keith makes to get up and stalk away, hissing quietly when his injuries cry out. Lance ignores the implications of the action and follows after him.

“You’re just gonna leave it. Just like that? But Earth… it’s our home— your home.”

He scoffs. “Earth has never been my home. Not like it is to you.”

“So… so you’re running away?”

That has him turning back. “I— that’s not— I’m not running away.”

“Yes, you are. You’re running. Just like you always do. Were you even gonna say goodbye when you left? Or were you just going to leave and maybe see us in a few years?” Keith opens his mouth in rebuttal, but Lance doesn’t let him. The words come pouring out of his mouth, saturating the air between them with wild honesty. “You’re always pulling away, like you’re afraid— and don’t say you aren’t, because you are! And that’s fine, you know? Cause everyone gets scared. But, man, you’ve got to stop letting it decide everything for you.”

A bitter taste enters his mouth, thick enough to lodge his throat when he swallows. Bitter because Keith has never been one to allow fear to rule him. Even from a young age he had learned that the world doesn’t care about boys who are afraid of the dark, for night still falls regardless on whether he wants it to or not, and that if he wanted to get anywhere in life then was going to have to learn to sleep with one eye open.

Lance plants an uninjured hand on his shoulder, trailing high to palm the slope of his neck, and it’s a contradicting action; his fingers are transparent, made up of the stars that surround them, but they feel solid and real, staining his existence a deep purple when he moves the other to hover hesitantly under a padded elbow. “You can try all you want, okay? Put an ocean between us— an universe even— but it won’t work. Won’t work because no matter what you do or think, we’ll be here. Earth… it doesn’t have to mean anything to you, but we— me and the team, we should. Home is what you make it.” Thin brows furrow as blue eyes flicker away, hesitation clear in the way his lower lip is sucked under his front teeth. “You can have your place with us, but I can’t make you want it.”

 _You can’t give up on yourself_ , whispers a memory, bruised but hopeful.

“A—And I can’t force you to stay, but I can say that I’d be sad if you don’t. I would miss you.” The fingers at his throat twitch. “We all would.”

Something gets stuck in his throat. “I would miss you too.”

“Then don’t go. Stay, please. Promise you’ll come back home.”

He’s run all his life. It started when he stepped away from the graveyard where his father lies six feet under and he had never stopped. For he makes loneliness into something that can be achieved rather than forced. A self-inflicted exile.

But lions are meant to be in prides.

The thought has tears springing to his eyes. Unheralded, they come, slipping past the slope of his cheek until they bead together at the point of his chin, dripping when his emotions become too heavy. He sniffles and the sudden sound has Lance’s gaze snapping back to his face, eyes going wide with surprise as he takes in Keith’s blotchy skin and scrunched up nose.

It’s been years since the last time he had let himself cry. Not even when Shiro had first gone missing had Keith wept, merely going hollow when Adam had been presented with the notice by an impartial field officer, crumbling the envelope in misguided anger when he had read the words _assumed dead_ and _sorry for your loss_. Stone-like, he had become, chipped where the Garrison had stabbed a knife into his back. For there was no kindness spared for little boys who cried or the men they grew up to be.

Lance’s own chin wobbles. “Keith, no, don’t… don’t cry. You never cry… and, and if you cry then I’m gonna cry. I didn’t mean to make you— and oh god, there I go.” He blinks rapidly and takes some deep, erratic breaths. “It’s okay. We’re good. We’re fine. Just— just let it out.”

So Keith does. He cries for his father, his mother, his brother, and his friends. Cries for himself— both the nine-year old sitting outside of child services as his first foster parents rage about broken windows and the sixteen-year old stumbling through a desert after being kicked out the one place he thought he belonged— for what was and what could have been. Cries for today and the tomorrow he wants after.

The feeling bursts from his chest like a monsoon in a jar, glass cracked and glass shattered. He stands in the middle of it, letting the high winds take him to the distant cliffside with its crumbling rock and rogue waves, looking to the lighthouse that sits atop its crest. A shining beacon, guiding just as a hand curls around his own, tugging to a place just beyond due north.

Eventually, his tears slow down and he shifts out of his bowed posture, blinking away the salt and noticing that his nose is pressed against the sharp turn of a jaw. Brown hair tickles the bridge of his nose, moving away when Lance does, and suddenly he’s looking straight into red-rimmed eyes. A thought, fleeting and inexplicable, crosses his mind, profound in how such a soft _oh_ can have his heart missing a beat. It’s weird and Keith clears his throat awkwardly, knowing that the moment has branded him— them, different than what they were.

Lance blows a raspberry. “Wow, that was intense.”

Keith wipes the fresh tears from his eyes, chuckling weakly. “Yeah… It kinda was.”

“It fine, right? We just had a lot of feelings to let out. Nothing wrong with two dudes crying over some feelings. Totally natural.”

“It’s— yeah, we’re fine. Better than fine, thanks to you.”

This time Lance doesn’t shrug off the praise. Merely nods and watches as Keith attempts to compose himself, shameless of the tear stains that track his own face. It’s an open expression, devoid of the boy’s usual carefully sculpted mask of confidence and revealing the things that lie underneath— a quiet conviction and compassion that melts even the coldest of hearts, alluring in the light of sincerity. Even now as he purses his lips, looking for all he is someone trying to decode a puzzle, face just shy of impassive even as blood drips sluggishly from the cut above his eye.

“You’re hurt,” Keith says stupidly, watching the blood smear when his companion absently goes to wipe it away and blinks in surprise when it comes back stained red. It’s nothing compared to the mess that his shoulder has become, hunched over itself and twitching with every muscle spasm. “You must’ve gotten that when we were…”

“One of the rocks must have nicked it,” Lance finishes, studiously ignoring how that was most definitely not what Keith was going to say. “It’s fine, though. Doesn’t even hurt.”

He bites his lip. “Looks like it’ll scar.”

Lance gives a small shrug with his uninjured shoulder, as if he doesn’t go to great lengths to keep his skin absolutely flawless with his many moisturizers and exfoliators. As if the new scar and how he got it is inconsequential. As if him and the team don’t notice the way he tenses whenever the gaze of someone snags too long onto the discolored skin of his back. As if it is really all fine, cast aside with a lopsided smile and the words, “I don’t mind. Plus, now we match.”

Keith starts and then settles. He side eyes the other boy, hand automatically coming up to brush against the puckered skin that cuts across his right cheek. “Yeah, I guess we do.”

And then the blue paladin is moving on, doing what he does best— talk. “But you know Hunk is gonna have a field day over this. Encountering a druid and getting trapped in some knock-off astral plane was so not part of the plan— he’s gonna take one look at us and then the next thing you know, we’ll be drowning in _I told you so_ ’s. Gosh, it almost makes me not wanna go back."

“I’m not even sure we can go back,” he murmurs truthfully.

“Yeah, if our usual mumbo jumbo with the lions was gonna work, we’d be out of here already.” He combs through the hair at the back of his head. “We might have to wait for the rest of the team. I hope they’re alright. Who know what they’re going through right now, who they’re up against. At least Hunk and Pidge have each other, but Allura went off by herself.”

Just as the words leave his mouth, there’s a mighty tremble that goes through the ground beneath them. It shakes Keith to his core, separating soul from body for a frightening second, and it’s only because the two are already holding each other that they don’t fall over. He looks up, trying to pinpoint the danger, and feels the breath leave his lungs.

Above them are celestial hands, reaching out.

They part the clouds like some second coming, ripping the heavens apart with divine rule and showering judgement upon that which lies in the face of its power. It is a saving grace, worshipped just as is feared, and Keith likens the image to those seen in stained glass and carved marble, untouchable in every sense.

“Allura,” Lance whispers and there is a reverence in the name.

But the hands stop just shy of them, hanging as if they’ve reached the end of their string and can go no further. A bridge of space lies between them and salvation, ominous in how it grows dark and empty, stark against the bright sheen of altean magic. A pulse ripples across cosmic skin and then fingers are curling, pushing against the force that keeps them at bay. But there should be nothing capable of such a feat, the plane empty save for the two paladins and—

“The orb,” Keith declares once it connects, already halfway to turning around and forcing Lance to do the same. “It's stopping her. We've gotta get rid of it.”

True to his suspicions, the dark orb has gotten closer during their time of inattentiveness. Shaking like a diseased animal, it floats mere feet away from them, hiding in a nest of dark matter. Desperate, it swallows itself whole, birthing anew from the remains only to fall prey to its own hunger again in an endless cycle of greed.

Almost immediately, he draws his bayard.

“Wait,” Lance says before he can even begin to think about starting an assault, the pressure at his elbow keeping him in place long enough to catch the look in the boy’s eye. Clear and determined. “Together.”

Another stolen heart beat and Keith is nodding.

Lance moves in closer until their breast plates scrape against one another, sliding his hand over Keith’s on the grip of the weapon. Almost immediately, it glows. Glows as its shape changes, molding around their intertwined hands and shifting into something that makes them both draw in a deep breath. A gun, accented black and larger than anything Keith has ever wielded before, activated with a simple touch. Lance’s touch.

It means something, he knows it does.

“Ready?” Lance asks.

“Ready,” Keith answers.

Together they lift the weapon, aiming its wide barrel at the ball of energy. As if sensing their intent and it’s impending doom, the thing starts pulsating. Crackles of black lightning claw at the air, growing berserk even as plasma builds up and light begins to illuminating their profiles. Keith almost shuts his eyes when their fingers squeeze over the trigger and the shot is made, powerful enough that it has their bones vibrating.

But they stand their ground as the shot makes it mark. Dark matter screams as its engulfed, ripped apart piece by piece, until it is no more.

Then Keith knows no more.

* * *

_Ready?_

Eyes meeting across a room, catching, tugging until there is no space between them. Golden lanterns burn, casting a spell that turns porcelain into shining bronze. It embellishes just as it emboldens, issuing a challenge that new hearts seldom refuse; nerves spark when his hand braces at the dip of a spine, giving it weight with a languid roll. A siren’s song, quiet and alluring, grazes the shell of his ear.

_Ready._

* * *

When consciousness returns to him, it is a fleeting affliction.

Cold air pricks his skin; dry, crisp, and filtered enough that it leaves his sinuses stinging. For a wild moment he thinks he’s back on the castleship, with its high ceilings and sloping archways, swathed in brocades and regal paintings, but stumbles back into reality when a delicate hand pushes his hair back and away from his face. He blinks rapidly, mind foggy and lagging, unable to determine his exact whereabouts; his body rebels, heart rate skyrocketing and muscles seizing in a panic just as blind as his eyes. There’s a quiet murmur from somewhere to his right and then the lights piercing his retinas dim, allowing room for his senses to readjust and notice the touch of strong hands to his biceps. The buzz in his head clears incrementally and he blinks Shiro into sight.

Relief settles in the curl of his smile when he sees Keith is awake. “Hey there, bud. You feeling okay?”

“Head hurts,” he answers automatically, mouth numb and slurring the words.

“Yeah, getting mind controlled by a space witch will do that to you.”

For a moment, Keith doesn’t understand; blissfully ignorant, he squints at his friend, until, finally, it comes to him. Time catches up and fills in the space left empty from exhaustion and morphine, dragging him into the present by the chains of the past. The feel of falling, glowing eyes set in a shadowed face, blood dripping down steel and, finally, a mouth forming his own name.

Alarmed, he sits up straight. “Lance. Where is he?” he demands, voice rising enough to have a nurse pop her head in the doorway. But he refuses to acknowledge the stranger, mind focusing on one fact and one fact only. “We were stuck in the astral plane together, and— we have to go back for him. He’s hurt— I hurt him and… and I need to know that— he, he is… Where is he?”

“Relax,” Shiro soothes, shooing away the nurse with a wave of his robotic arm. “He’s safe— you both are. See for yourself.”

Keith follows the direction of the finger pointing toward his right and feels his body exhale in relief. There, slumped in the seat closest to his bedside, is Lance. Dressed in a standard hospital robe and looking a little worse for wear, the boy is sound asleep, head settled in the crook of one elbow and just barely grazing the edge of Keith’s pillow. Bandages peek out from the collar of his rumpled shirt, disappearing over one shoulder and spotted a faint pink. Three stitches break the streak of his left eyebrow, a permanent reminder.

Movement by his legs catch his attention and Keith looks down only to see Pidge curling tighter against his hip atop of the blankets. Her glasses are skewed and there’s drool clinging to the corner of her mouth, giving her kittenish snores a nasal quality. One of her legs hangs off the edge of the bed where he can just see the back of Hunk’s head, lolled and dead to the world.

Shiro follows his line of sight, sighing out in exasperation and fondness. “Those two been here since you were allowed visitors five days ago. Lance has been off bed rest since yesterday, but he joined the camp out almost immediately. They’ve been driving the staff nuts— Allura too.” He nods to the chairs lining the wall where Allura and Romelle lean against each other, sharing a thin blanket as they sleep. “Still, no one’s willing to say no to the defenders of the universe. Not after they saved all of existence.”

His gaze snaps back to his mentor. Breathless, he asks, “We did it?”

Shiro smiles and it’s like the olden days, carefree and hopeful. “Yeah, we did.”

An exhilarated laugh leaves his lips and he flops back down, careful not to disrupt Pidge as he sinks into the cool comfort of the pillow. He looks at the unassuming ceiling, gray and tiled, and lets himself feel. Feel the relief and the fortune and the euphoria, because, wow, they did it. They really did it. It’s all over, the war is won and they’re still here, alive and together.

The sun sets today, only to rise again tomorrow.

“Get some rest,” Shiro orders in that brotherly tone of his, chuckling when Romelle lets out a loud snore and Hunk grumbles something incoherent when Pidge accidentally kicks him in her sleep. He pulls the blanket higher over his chest, tucking him in just like his dad used to do. “We’ll all be here when you wake up. I promise.”

Keith believes him. Trusts him so fully that he lets his head tilt to the side and his eyelids slip shut without hesitation. Trusts in the thought of _after_ so much that he lets his fingers uncurl and smooth over the sheets, finding a home under Lance’s slack hand.

He dips back to sleep to the sound of Shiro’s thoughtful hum and the deep breathing of his teammates.

* * *

It takes the IGF-Atlas two months to make it back to Earth and Keith spends a majority of the time bedridden. He’s prodded and poked by the medical staff, psychoanalyzed by more than one on-call therapist until any remnant of Honerva’s dark touch is brought to light. It’s a necessity that Keith wholly supports, not wanting to lose the control he had fought so hard to reclaim, but as the days turn into weeks and Keith, now coherent and able to stand on his own without getting dizzy, is still prohibited to leave his room in the hospital ward despite no lingering effects being found, it becomes considerably less tolerable.

Left to only his thoughts and the obscure flashes that come and go when they please, things come to a head when Keith decides he can’t take it anymore and just rips out the IVs connecting him to the machines around him. More than one alarm goes off as he stumbles into some scrubs, getting only as far as the hallway before nurses and doctors alike rush him, fussing over his person like he is something fragile and on the verge of collapse. It only serves to frustrate him more. Overly helpful hands try to steer him back to the bed-turned-prison and he fights them the whole way, causing such a scene that it summons Lance from his own room. The boy huffs like a mother hen and Keith huffs right back, their bickering only ending when his legs suddenly give out and he has to be carried back to bed.

His saving grace is his team, who take it upon themselves to ensure that Keith is almost never left alone. Pidge lugs her laptop over and they laugh over the dumb Voltron show, arguing loudly over whose character is more inaccurate. Hunk sneaks in home-cooked food whenever he visits, looking overly suspicious when he dramatically checks the room for bugs before unearthing the tubberware from underneath his shirt. Lance brings sketchbooks and colored pencils, shoving Keith playfully as they play tic-tac-toe and compete in who can draw the other the ugliest. Allura comes bearing news of the ship’s going-ons, braiding his hair in styles he’s assured are peak altean fashion but mostly just look like something a third-graded might do. Shiro comes around with a book or two, teasing him about how easily he melts over the romance subplots. And someone must comm his mother because a few days after he wakes, she’s also there, arms wrapping protectively around him as Kosmo knocks things over in his eagerness to get up on the bed.

It’s then that Keith hears secondhand what happened while he and Lance were trapped in the astral plane.

Pidge and Hunk tell the story, complete with exaggerated gestures and loud gun noises, of how Team Punk shut down all of Oriande; how the two had found themselves on the temple-ship’s lower deck with a battalion of altean soldiers guarding a crystal-based powerhouse, Hunk keeping them at bay while Pidge snuck by and hacked into the tempe-ship’s mainframe. There’s more to what they tell him, but it includes technological jargon that would only have Keith’s brain splitting open, so he’s happy enough to let them playfully argue over things like, “neuro-headsets” and “Lorenz attractor.”

Then comes Allura's part.

Legs crossed and hands clasped in her lap, the princess speaks of encountering Honerva at the ship’s nav deck. Her words are tentative when recounting the scene she had stumbled upon: the bodies of misguided alteans sprawled across the floor, drained of life at the expense of the witch’s endeavours, and Honerva herself, crazed and weakened from mind-controlling Keith, standing at the helm as if the dead were wilting flowers in a garden. She tries her best to describe the moment the older altean had split open the world and transported them to the point of existence, struggling to find words when talking about how Honerva had carelessly destroyed universe after universe.

“It was awful,” she tells him. “I could feel them all— so many lives, lost.”

“What happened then?” he asks. “Did you…?”

“No.” She looks off to the side. “She did not die from my hand.”

“Then, how?”

Finally, a smile. “I had help. My father and the paladins of old, trapped within Honerva’s mind but freed once we were beyond the limits of our universe. We attempted to reason with her and we nearly succeeded, but she was so overcome with grief that she would not listen. Not until…” She swallows and the smile is more brittle, but still very much real. “It wasn’t until Lotor, called from Oriande’s core, showed up that she stopped. He convinced her destroying all of existence wouldn’t take away the pain— and that they had not lost each other, not entirely, and could start again.”

Allura absently brushes her lips and Keith can only wonder on what else Lotor had said.

She shakes herself from whatever memory had brought on the wistful moment, reaching out to adjust Lance's homemade Get Well card and the vase of flowers sitting on his bedside table. A present from Coleen Holt, they look to be a cross between sunflowers and tulips, glittering a fiery orange when the light hits them just so. “None of them could return with me to this universe and I could not ascend with them in good faith, not when I have so much to do here. I had promised to bring peace to this universe and I intend to see it through. My father understood, so we restored what we could and said our goodbyes.”

Sensing there was more left unsaid, Keith sets his hand atop hers. “You’ll see them again.”

Her eyes water a bit as she takes a deep breath and gives him a thankful smile, exhaling a soft, “I will, and I’ll have so much to tell them when I do.”

In the days following Allura makes good on her promise. For as soon as she is able, she takes the restoration effort into her capable hands, spearheading the movement with steely-eyed determination and the hulking figure of Voltron at her back; it is slow progress, carried on the backs of the survivors, but eventually the Coalition expands into a living, breathing network of change. Dignitaries come together, treaties are signed and planets restored. By the time Keith is finally discharged from the hospital ward the gears are already set in motion and he’s left to bask in awe of what she’s done.

But the biggest shock hadn’t come until he turned down one of the ship’s many hallways and had run straight into the princess’s new entourage.

Allura had talked of the colony quite extensively, disclosing her relief when the survivors had stumbled out of Oriande following the fight, shaken from their Honerva-induced haze, and had come to her seeking answers. Answers that led them to follow her aboard the IGF-Atlas, course set to the newly reborn planet of Altea, of which was waiting for its lost children and princess to return. A dead civilization, resurrected by magic and shaped by the memories of those who once knew it.

It is for that fact that Coran becomes so important in the time after the fight. He is the last of his kind, a remnant of an old age, and those from the colony hang him among the stars because of it. A treasure cove of knowledge, they flock to him, eager to hear about every word, song and anecdote— immortalized with each captivated listener. Never before had Keith seen the older altean so happy, so hopeful.

Even Romelle, once ostracized, becomes an integral part of the species’ rehabilitation. The universe is different than what it was when the colony first went into hiding hundreds of years ago and she makes it her mission to better accumulate the colony to the changes. She gives them a tour of the ship, starting with a stop at the catrine to try one of Hunk’s many culinary delights; introduces them to the crew, to Acxa and the MFE pilots; sits them down and discloses the fate of planet Olkarion; talks of her adventures with team Voltron and nearly being crushed by a rampaging yalmor; laments about her lost family and gushes about what’s planned for New Altea. Slowly but surely, they find their place.

The alteans recovery brings into glaring detail Keith’s own miscalculation. For in all the time spent thinking about _after_ and how much he wants it, not once had he considered his actual part in it.

(Late at night he lays in bed, listening to the quiet hum of the ship and his own steady heartbeat, lost in half-formed thoughts of tomorrow. The clock reads late but his mind will not rest, unaccustomed to the stillness of peace and unsure what will become of things if it lasts.

“What do I do now?” he asks the world at large, expecting no answer but frustrated all the same when it doesn’t come.)

The next chapter of his life is coming and coming fast, and so far Keith is stuck looking at a blank page. It’s a problem that his friends don’t seem to have, falling into niches the world has made specifically for them. The alteans have a culture to revive and Shiro has an entire crew to lead, while Hunk, Pidge and Lance have families waiting for them. It makes Keith nervous watching them move on from Voltron so effortlessly, mostly because they had been brought together by a war and had forged something real in the wake of trauma shared, but now that that variable is taken away— what’s to keep them from drifting apart?

It’s that alarming thought that has him relishing the time spent aboard the Atlas those final weeks, knowing that their time together might come to a close soon and greedily taking all they can give in the time left. Days are spent glued to his friends’ sides, absorbing everything their company can offer, micro-expressions and quirks and all. He commits to memory Pidge’s high-pitched cackle and Hunk’s dubious side-eye, Allura’s luscious hair and Coran’s twitching mustache, Shiro’s calming smile and Lance’s obnoxious smirk. His friends don’t seem to mind, more than happy to stick around when he asks; Lance in particular seems to enjoy the extended hang outs, smiling whenever he sees him and always with an idea of how to spend the day, like racing their lions to the nearest gas giant of whatever galaxy they reside in or setting up in one of the many observation decks to stargaze.

He must not be as subtle as he thinks he is because three days before they’re scheduled to reach Earth he returns to the compound he shares with his mother and Shiro, and finds them waiting for him.

“Keith,” Shiro greets and he knows that tone. It's the  _we need to talk_ tone. “Come sit down with us.”

He sits and immediately his mother is leaning over and combing through his hair, clawed hands light in how they detangle and smooth over black strands, pushing it out of his face. It’s one of the few things concerning physical contact that she indulges in, making up for all the years she lost, and Keith lets himself enjoy the gesture.

The two don’t say anything, waiting for Keith to start. He knows it’s pointless to try and deny anything, so he doesn’t. Just gets straight to and ventures a gruff, “You know I love you, right?”

The sentiment is easily returned, no hesitation in breathing love back into his cold body. Simple as shifting to press himself into the crook of his mother’s arm, a shape that is distinctively Keith in nature, and feeling Shiro’s calloused hand rubbing soothing circles over the hunch of his back. It’s a needed reminder of the fact that no matter where he goes, to the farthest corners of the universe and back a million times over, he will always have a place here, with them. Always. 

It's this understanding that brings his thoughts back to the place he just spent the last few hours trying to expel from his mind. It makes him frown into the folds of his mother's jacket. “I…” he starts, his voice a notch above a whisper, “don’t know what to do.”

They keep quiet, letting him piece together his thoughts, and for that, he’s grateful.

“I’ve never actually thought of what would happen after the war was over. Just kinda assumed that I would move on to the next fight— ‘cause it’s what I’m good at, you know? I mean, I’ve been trying to get as far away from here since I was a kid, looking for answers…” He bites his lip. “Never thought I’d want to stay.”

“Oh, Keith.” Krolia sighs and it doesn't erase the ache of his invisible scars, but it soothes their phantom touch into something more bearable. If there’s anyone who would understand, it was her. “There’s nothing wrong with wanting to remain close to those you love. I would’ve given anything to stay with you and your father all those years ago.”

Shiro’s touches the back of his arm. “No one’s forcing you to leave either. And of course all of us want to remain as close as possible, and we will. We can travel halfway across the galaxy and still come back to each other.”

“Lance said something like that too.”

“Lance is a smart guy.”

“Yeah… he is.”

Something touches his ankle and he peers down to see Kosmo shuffling closer, back legs dragging on the ground as he pushes his snout under the buckle of his boots insistently; when the wolf sees Keith looking, he whines and wags his tail. The boy can’t help but smile at his furry friend. A quick pat and the animal is jumping into his lap, shoving his big head under Keith’s chin and forcing both Krolia and Shiro to lean away with a chuckle. And just like that, his stormy disposition is cleared and he’s left to enjoy the sunshine.

The cushions shift as Krolia asks, “What’s got you worrying over this? Did someone say something to you?”

Knowing how overprotective the two can be and to what lengths they would go to keep him happy, Keith hurries to clarify, “No one said anything. It’s me. I’m the one that’s being weird. Please don’t try and strong-arm some poor corporal.”

While Shiro opens his mouth to probably say how he would never do a thing like that, Krolia just shrugs and scratches Kosmo under his chin. The wolf enjoys the attention and closes his eyes in pleasure.

“I’m not sure what exactly happened, but it just hit me— everyone will be going their separate ways. Hunk’s been talking about opening an intergalactic culinary school alongside the coalition, and already has a line of people ready to sign up. The Holts are literally on their way in creating the next generation of defenders. And Lance, Lance could do anything he wanted— the alteans love him and want him as Earth’s ambassador, the Garrison’s practically begging him to teach the new batch of recruits, the Olkari offered him one of their ships to help search for a new planet— whatever he wants.” He takes a breath. “And I know I want to go with the Blades, to help fix what the empire broke. But now… it’s not the only thing I want.”

They lapse into silence again, processing what he said and what he’s left unsaid.

“I know what I want, but I don’t know… how do I get it?” His heart beats fast and if there was any confusion on what exactly they’re talking about before, it’s dispelled by what he says next, “And what if he doesn’t want it too?”

Neither of them seem surprised at his words regardless of the fact he’s never mentioned anything on the topic before. They take it in stride, blinking in unison as he sinks deeper into the couch and tries to hide his face in fluff of Kosmo’s mane.

Eventually, Shiro clears his throat. “Have you tried telling him what you want?”

“No,” he mumbles.

“Well, that might be the first step. You’ll never know if it’s… mutual, not if you don’t try.”

He sighs and clings to blue fur. “It might make things weird.”

“Maybe,” Shiro acquiesce. “Or maybe it’ll make it better.”

“Keith, if this is something you really want, then you should seek it out.” His mother’s gaze is unwavering, intense as it usually is concerning him. “You deserve love as much as anyone else and I know there is a limit to what I can provide for you, but this boy… he would be lucky to have someone as amazing as you as a partner.”

None of them have spoken _his_ name and Keith’s not sure what that means, or if he’s ready to say it into existence yet. All he knows is that it’s real and his.

“There is nothing to fear in this,” Krolia continues to assure, Shiro nodding along, and there’s no reason not to believe them. Because he knows their history and has seen it— the throes of love, breathtaking and dangerous, whittling to a tragic end before it has even begun— how it took and took and took, and still they survived. “It is a new chapter. One that our time in the abyss foretold and that is something to be celebrated.”

He can see Shiro’s brows furrow in puzzlement and quickly stutters out a, “N-no, no, mom. I don’t think— don’t think that’s it.”

Thankfully, his mother decides not to elaborate and Keith is spared the act of having to explain anything more; he’s already contemplated the flashes and their connection to this new development on more than one occasion, and he’s not about to hash it out now with an audience. One heart-to-heart is enough and they don't need a round two on this emotional rollercoaster.

“Thanks for listening though.” He snuggles closer to Kosmo, enduring the wet lick to his jaw. “I appreciate you— both  of you.”

Shiro and Krolia smile. “We’ll always be here for you. Whenever you need, whatever you need.”

And Keith know it's true.

* * *

That night, while he sleeps, a flash hits him.

Bedded in an hourglass cradle, time sifts through his fingers and on the wind; it’s the veil of transparent impression following the fall of a blink, infinite as he lets the feeling of it overtake him. Deeper and deeper it takes him, sinking into the unconscious, to a place where he keeps all he holds dear, unlocked and open for the taking.

There, a light. He follows it and walks through the door to a room he doesn’t yet recognize, lit up by the warm glow of a table lamp. Boots lay at the foot of a bed, hidden under the lazy sweep of a shirt hastily thrown, and a flashing tablet sits precariously on the edge of the queen bed. But he ignores it, for something more compelling is spread over gray sheets.

Two bodies, entangled in a private moment. One of which he recognizes.

It's Keith and it isn’t Keith.

This version of himself doesn't balk at the contact, but, rather, shifts closer. His hands smooth over a naked chest and broad shoulders, one curling at the nape of his partner’s neck while the other flutters down to reposition a tan arm more securely around his waist. Space between them dwindles into nothing as their lips connect, igniting a fire so bright that Keith feels as if he is embracing the sun.

He watches himself sigh, eyelashes fluttering and softening the once sharp angles of his face, jaw and neck; a stretch and a flower blooms in an ode of love, pale fingers climbing the vine of a muscled back and pressing the blunt of his nails there to keep from falling from that shakespearean balcony. 

Hips arch and bow in an impossibly slow rhythm, rolling to a melody Keith has never danced to before— has only seen on tv or in dark hallways, hidden away from his flushed gaze. But this is different, different than anything he’s ever known. Different because he can feel it, the pressure to his pelvis and mattress against his heels. Different because it’s his body and his moans and his desire painted on the landscape of sheets before him.

It’s different and he’s mesmerized, stepping closer and watching how hands— his hands, gloveless and callused and purposeful— reach down to cup his future lover’s backside, spreading wide to squeeze as much as possible through tight denim and bearing down just as hips twist. A flash of yellow sclera, pupils dilated in primordial arousal, and a bite to brown flesh.

“Keith,” he hears, causing a shiver to slip down his spine. No one has ever said his name like that. “Keith.” Never like that. “Keith.”

The body above his moves, coiling in such a way that tells of a soldier’s dedication and a lover’s experience, muscles twitching as the grinding becomes more profound. A grunt and the rustling of fabric, loud in the wake of a tanned hand sneaking down his front, exploring, searching and— _oh_.

Heat travels up his spine, flooding his veins and curling his toes. It collects at his chest and rises up, crawling the tendons of his neck and finding a place at the tip of his ears and apples of his cheeks. Bubbles of magma fill the cage of his ribs and he squirms, trying to pop them. They burst and he burns anew.

His earlier dream-memories had all been nondescript, vague scenes of a movie he doesn’t recall watching, viewed through a smudged screen in slow motion. They leave room for the mind to wander, filling in the blanks as he sees fit, and so far Keith has had no problem in leaving it well enough alone.

Because love had always been something of a fantasy for Keith, a boy who grew up running in the hopes someone might catch him, but still too afraid to slow down. It had been his father’s coat, slung over his tiny shoulders just hours before a kitchen fire burnt it to crisps. It had been his mother’s knife, bandaged to hide the truth about his own abandonment. It had been in the eyes of a fellow foster boy, olive green shining emerald when he waved Keith goodbye as he left with his new family. It had been the light laugh of his mentor turned brother, fading away as he joined the stars. It had been a dream better left forgotten.

But not anymore.

For he recognizes the face belonging to the body pressed flush against his. It’s a face that skims the surface of a great many memories. Past, present, and future. It’s pudgy cheeks slimming to sharp edges, glinting in the sun after a hard battle won and a ridiculous challenge issued. It’s the face of a friend.

The confirmation comes in the form of his own mouth parting open, red-kissed and curved in passion, uttering a single word. A single name.

* * *

A voice spears through the air and he looks up into dark eyes centered in an angular face; they are dark blue and clash with Keith’s almost immediately, tacking onto him with such vigor that it makes his skin itch.

“Uh, the name’s Lance,” the boy says when questioned, head tilted and eyebrow arched high.

* * *

 _Finally_ , his heart says, cradled in the hands of another.

* * *

“Hey man,” Lance greets when he opens the door at around one in the morning, casual where Keith is tense. The moment is preceded only by an impromptu text sent fifteen minutes prior when he had had enough of the silence of his empty room, thrown his father’s hand-me-down jacket over his shoulders and had made the journey to the blue paladin’s living quarters. “What’s up?”

“Can I come in?”

A silent nod and he’s stepping through the threshold. The compound is similar to the one he shares with his mother and Shiro, but not. There are personal touches that he does not recognize, jars and potted plants from a place he has never been. There’s a bow window that takes up the entirety of a single wall to his right, framing the sight of infinite space and twin moons, a nest of cushions that looks recently sat upon settled on the ledge there. A couch and two armchairs take up the majority of the main room, worn and angled to face the television sat atop a stand stuffed full with DVDs and books, some with english covers and others with alien ones. Two doors cut into the remaining walls, one leading into a dimly lit hallway and the other into what he believes to be a kitchen. A table already cluttered with paper and odd knick-knacks stands to their far left, chairs pushed out from its undercage; photos span the bulletin board above it, overlapping and showcasing smiling faces in their polarized frames. His own closed-mouth smile peers back at him, framed by his team and the lions in a worn picture pinned right next to a family portrait.

Even this space, so newly made, has the sense of coziness. It reminds him of the glimpses of the house he sees in his flashes and the thought makes his skin buzz because people call this place home and mean it. It’s a reflection of what he has always wanted, authentic and steadfast, a place to belong. To want and be wanted in return.

“Keith,” Lance says at the prolonged silence, gaze steady and clear where the world is not. “Is something going on?”

“No” he says immediately. The lie is bitter and Keith grimaces at the taste of it, feeling foolish for even thinking that this was a good idea. The feeling twists unpleasantly in his stomach and he, in an effort to remedy this, immediately turns to shoulder his way back outside, to leave before being sent away.

“Hey now.” Lance’s voice is soft, contradicting to the solid grip that catches his wrist, effectively stopping his departure; it brings to mind the feeling of a sea breeze, uplifting the spread of a bird’s wingspan as it takes flight. It suits the boy, ever earnest and agreeable. “Let’s not— you obviously didn’t just wake me in the middle of the night to say hi. If something is bothering you—”

“I just,” he interrupts, frustrated over what is and what could be, and how he doesn’t know how to ask for it, “wanted to tell you that I think— that you— that we make a good team.”

The boy blinks, visibly caught off guard. “You came here… to say that you think… we make a good team?” 

His heart beats fast. “Yeah.”

“Oh, um.” And for the first time in a long time, Lance doesn’t seem to know what to do. He wets his lips, gaze flickering to the side and then back to Keith’s face, confused but determined. “Okay, well, I think we make a good team too.”

“You do?”

“Uh, yeah, I, uh, I do.”

Hearing those words makes something inside him burst, undoubtedly shining through in the look he gives the boy. Lance blinks again before offering a bashful smile and Keth would be foolish not to return it.

They stare at each other and Keth can feel strips of reality peeling away, leaving behind something entirely too raw. It is personal and frighteningly intimate, new like the uncharted belt of galaxies yet to be discovered. It is a trust fall, a dive into the deep abyss of suppressed feeling and incomprehensible thoughts.

But Keith has always been a bit adventurous, boldly stepping forward where others would balk. It has always given him this edge on others, constantly pushing forward with the simple intent of experiencing life and then rolling with the punches that were swung his way when the world rebelled against his aspirations. Like a rubber band, he snaps back after every impossible twist and bend, ready to stand at the very edge and dare the world to take him on. 

Maybe that's why he doesn't hesitate to take this plunge.

“Can I stay here tonight… with you?”

“Okay,” Lance says, no hesitation.

Then a hand, palm heavenward and fingers curled, is offered. And Keith, hanging between misguided trepidation and desperate longing, grabs onto it like a sinner to a cross; redemption comes in the form of skin on skin, solemn and genuine, like only things in the AM can be. 

Lance takes a step back and Keith follows. Deeper and deeper they go, past the photographs and discarded shoes and closed doors. The heavy footsteps of his combat boots are displaced in the quiet, clumsy and rigid, nothing like Lance’s barefooted grace; it’s almost like a flash, the subdued ambiance of the moment vast enough to sink into, but rather than being pulled into its depths, he willingly dives into it. The hallway ends and they reach a door, half open, and Lance guides him through it.

There are no words as they enter Lance’s room or when he’s pushed to sit atop a bed with rumpled sheets. No words, just the lull of night filling the space between them as the blue paladin tugs off his jacket and kneels to relieve him of his shoes; it’s unnervingly intimate, socked feet wiggling against the chilled surface of the tiled floor, privy to this alcove away from the world. A cuban flag clings to the walls, surrounded by maps of the world and constellations he grew up with peeling at the corners. A gaming console collects dust next to a small tv, cartridge of some obscure video game still inserted and waiting to be resumed. The small desk pushed to the corner is crammed with figurines and unfinished books and paper airplanes alike, an organized mess that remains in an odd shrine of Lance-ness.

The boy who calls it his is crawling over the bedspread, tugging at Keith’s shirt until he follows his lead and tucks himself under the covers. They lay on their sides, facing each other, staring— waiting.

“What did you mean,” Keith asks, voice just below a whisper as he indulges in a stray thought, “when you said a home is what you make it?”

Just as the words leave his mouth, a waking flash hits. Transparent hands frame his face in the stillness of night, growing more real as the moments pass. Sleep is a missing lover but these hands try their best to fill the void, thumb brushing over the discolored skin on his cheek, careful, like he is a constellation newly discovered. Like he is something to be cherished, invaluable despite the scars that mark him.

(Like someone worthy of being loved.)

“Home can be anything, you know,” Lance says in lieu of a conversation starter.

Slivers of moonlight filter through the blinds above their heads, casting lines of truth across the sheets. Lance tilts his head forward and a band slides over his eyes, catching the ocean in them and drawing Keith into their rolling tides. And as distracted as he is, he doesn't put up a fight when a hand clasps his own, reeling them heartward.

“Home is just something you can come back to.” His knuckles brush against the soft fabric of a nightshirt, the v-neckline falling loose to reveal a sharp collarbone, and Keith feels his breath hitching. “Something that keeps you grounded.”

A symphony erupts from his breastbone, piano notes curling around their bodies in an ode to the feeling. It surrounds him— blue, blue, _blue_.

“A place.”

It could be an empty shack in the middle of the desert or a grand castle floating amidst the stars. It could even be the mystery home in his dreams, with its creaky floorboards and happy atmosphere. 

“A moment.”

It could be now, their voices mere whispers in the silent night. 

“An object.”

It could be the braided thread wrapped around Lance’s left ankle, beads of white and silver making indents in skin where it presses against Keith's lower calf. It could be the borrowed shirt he's wearing, the sleeves just a smidge too big and smelling of detergent.

“A person.”

It could be the body next to him, familiar and lean and warm. It could be the sound of a heart beating in tandem with his own, a beacon to the life they live even in the suffocating silence of the dead of night. It could be the words that pulls answers from him, voice light just as it can be sharp. It could be the arm thrown over his shoulder during movies or the playful scuffle of feet under the dinner table. It could be the back pressed to his in the heat of battle or the relieved smile that greets him as he stumbles out of a healing pod.

“Home is whatever you make it to be.”

It could be him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully this chapter was worth the wait. Til next time, my dudes.


End file.
